


Frost Rose

by Hamliet



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Olympics, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, F/M, Found Family, Healing, Paparazzi, figure skating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-19 00:47:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22902481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hamliet/pseuds/Hamliet
Summary: Three-time world figure skating champion Ciri's life fell apart during the off-season. Injury, a scandal, paparazzi. When her adoptive father suggests she team up with a new coach named Yennefer, Ciri doubts the former ice dance champion can help her. But as Ciri, Yennefer, and Geralt all draw closer together, Ciri can't shake strange dreams of another life, nor the feeling that she's being hunted by an eerily familiar specter....
Relationships: Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach/Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 91
Kudos: 85





	1. Edge Call

**Author's Note:**

> This follows mostly book canon, so show watchers, you might be spoiled for some major plot elements! Also, Ciri is 19 in this story, and Bonhart kinda lurks in the background and comes as a warning all on his own, because he sucks.

Her fists pounded against the thick slab of ice. Sealed beneath the lake, she struggled to keep water from flooding down her throat, from pooling in her chest, from drowning her. Her legs hung too heavy to kick, numb from the cold. Her lungs burned. 

The ice shattered. Gagging, she hauled herself out of the lake, only to realize it wasn’t a lake and she didn’t sit on ice, but on a wooden floor. 

A collar looped around her neck. It was the only thing she wore. A face she recognized, and loathed, smirked at her.  _ “You flatter yourself.” _

She ran, scrabbling to tear the collar off, failing, choking. And then she wasn’t choking on the collar, but on smoke, and flames scalded her skin, melted her hair like wax. The devil himself, wearing a helmet with black wings, snatched her, and she was too terrified to move, to scream, to assert her existence and that she wanted him to stop, let her go, she wanted to get back, she wanted her grandmother, she wanted Mousesack and her friends, she wanted—

Geralt, bleeding. She knelt over him, on the verge of death herself, and she was tired, so tired of losing.

Ciri gagged, jolting awake. 

Sweat coated her. Shivering, she pushed herself up. Her soft blanket rested over her legs, her white cat, Ihuarraquax, stirring as if her abrupt awakening had disturbed his sacred slumber. 

“Sorry,” Ciri muttered. “Not like I wanted to wake up like this, either.”

Ihuarraquax yawned and rolled over, tail flopping lazily against her knee.

Ciri rested her forehead in her palms. Her hands were trembling. 

It was just a dream. Just a nightmare. She’d had plenty of those. 

The dreams didn’t settle into the mush of sleep, though. Instead, Ciri couldn’t fathom sleeping, and each scene seemed as if it was branded into her chest, wounds that she didn’t know of a salve to cure. 

She’d dreamed of her grandmother’s death in a car accident years ago fairly frequently, but not in the past few years. This dream, though—they felt oddly familiar, yet even more unsettling than those real-life nightmares. 

It was normal, she told herself. She was stressed. The past few months had been chaos. That dickhead reporter, Bonhart, had successfully made her life a living hell after selling the tabloid photos of Ciri and her girlfriend, Mistle. Not quite stripping and humiliating her with a collar, but honestly, Bonhart wasn’t morally above that, in Ciri’s opinion. 

Well, ex-girlfriend. Because as of three weeks ago, they had broken up. 

Ciri wished Mistle were here for her to bury her face in another shoulder. She did not like sleeping alone. But if she was, she knew exactly what else would be happening, and she had no desire to return there. It’d gotten her in enough trouble.

_ Ciri Cintra, Three-Time World Champion, Caught Kissing Another Girl—AND She’s Got a Criminal Record! _

That fucking Daily Mail. Ciri could have dealt with that scandal, could have twisted it to make Bonhart look like the homophobic asshole he was, not to mention a jerk dredging up a juvenile criminal record for petty theft, if it weren’t for the fact that the headlines caught the conservative national figure skating federation’s attention and they decided to spring a surprise drug test on Ciri just after Mistle had spiked her drink with cocaine. A positive drug test, and she was suspended from figure skating for three months.

Mistle insisted it was a dare from Kayleigh. It probably was. But Ciri’s reputation was in tatters, her coach had already planned to leave, and after bruising a bone in her foot, it made sense to take the Grand Prix season off and recuperate for nationals and, hopefully, the Olympics. Her agent, Jaskier, strongly urged her to do so. 

_ “They’ll forget all about it, _ ” he assured her.  _ “Focus on healing your foot and landing more triple axels.” _

Now, when Ciri closed her eyes, she felt the flames, saw Bonhart’s grinning face as he humiliated her in public. Collared like a dog. A dream that clung to her mind, refusing to dissipate. 

To hell with it. Ciri wasn’t going back to sleep. She climbed out of bed.

Ihuarraquax whimpered in protest. Ciri rolled her eyes, rubbing the cat’s stomach. He slapped her hand with his paws. 

The sun was just beginning to peek over the treetops, peach and scarlet liquid streaming through dark fangs. Ciri padded out of her room. She paused.

The scent of lilac and gooseberries mingled in the air. A purse sat on the end table in the living area. Two wine glasses, empty but stained red, stood side-by-side on the counter. 

Ciri slid her eyes towards the door to Geralt’s bedroom. Her father had adopted her after her grandmother died when Ciri was ten, paid for all her lessons in figure skating. And the woman who must be behind that door— 

_ Yennefer Vengerberg.  _

Geralt’s old flame, a two-time Olympic and three-time World champion in ice dance, now Ciri’s new coach. 

A smile settled on Ciri’s lips. She still wasn’t sure of Yennefer’s capabilities as a coach—ice dancing was so very different from jumping triples—but Geralt clearly still cared for Yennefer, and he would never do anything to endanger Ciri’s skating. 

He had been reluctant to suggest Yennefer as a potential coach, in fact. After Ermion Skellig had to step back due to a family issue, Ciri knew she could have her pick of coaches. Hell, Jaskier talked about auditions for them, as many were clambering to work with the reigning world champion, the favorite for Olympic gold next year. But after Bonhart leaked those stupid photos and she failed the drug test, they all cancelled. Fringilla, Keira, Sabrina—no one wanted to coach her. Avallac’h still wanted to, but twenty minutes into a trial with him and Ciri had concluded he was a creep, so he was dismissed. 

So much change. Why bother trying? 

But she was so  _ close _ to her goal. And she loved skating. Her grandmother started her in the sport, and Geralt, being an old hockey player, used to take her skating for fun on the weekends too. 

_ “Why not Yennefer?”  _ suggested Triss Merigold, Ciri’s longtime choreographer who wouldn’t even consider leaving her. 

Yennefer’s coaching credits were rather limited, but she was willing to give Ciri a chance, and Ciri was willing to give her one on the recommendation of Triss and the begrudging recommendation from and unusual, slight fluster to Geralt’s voice when he spoke of the woman. 

Ciri dragged a comb through her hair, twisting it up over her head. She fed Ihuarraquax—not that the cat was grateful—and headed out. As she pounded down the stairs, she heard retching from their downstairs neighbor’s flat.

_ Milva? _ Ciri almost wanted to call out to make sure the woman was all right. 

_ Don’t embarrass her.  _

Ciri sighed and stepped out into the warm air of late summer dawn. The rink was only a short drive away. Ciri parked her car. When she went to unlock the door, it flew open anyways.

Ciri shrieked. 

“Whoops!” Angoulême grinned at her. “You’re here early.”

“So are you.” Ciri wrinkled her nose at her friend. “Did you sleep at all?”

Angoulême shrugged. “Nah. But you really should sleep more. It’s best for your health—”

“I had nightmares,” Ciri said shortly.

“Ah.” Angoulême’s nose wrinkled as she stepped back to let Ciri in. Angoulême worked at the rink and had been Ciri’s training buddy when they were younger. Angoulême wasn’t interested in competitive skating, however, and dropped out to coach younger kids while she did community college part time. Or rather, did community college’s parties. 

_ I’m a theater major; it’s part of the job,  _ Angoulême would always say.

“Didn’t have nightmares,” said Angoulême. “But I had a pretty weird trip. Something must’ve been in my drink.” 

Ciri stiffened.

“Don’t worry, no one’s drug testing me.” Angoulême rolled her eyes. “I dreamed I was about to be hanged, but your Geralt saved me.”

“Well, Yennefer spent the night.”

“Relax, I wasn’t saying it in that way. It was just a funny dream.” Angoulême shrugged.

Ciri’s hands rose to her neck, tracing the soft skin. “I dreamed Bonhart was choking me. With a collar.” 

“Well, see now, the psychology behind that’s obvious,” Angoulême chattered as she followed Ciri to the locker room. “His stupid reporting has you in a chokehold. Don’t worry, you’ll slit his hold with your skates this season. You watch.”

Ciri laughed. “I thought you slept through your psychology final.”

“I did, but I still passed with a C. I did all the work beforehand.” Angoulême wiggled her eyebrows as she plopped down on a bench. Ciri stripped off her sneakers, changing into her well-worn skates. 

Angoulême’s assurances at least soothed some of the sting from those dreams. “You know who else was in those dreams?”

“Me?” Angoulême fluttered her eyelashes.

“No. The Black Knight.”

“Well, slit him too.” 

Ciri tossed an ace bandage at Angoulême. She finished wrapping her foot. It was mostly healed, but Regis recommended she keep it wrapped and abstain from jumping for the next week. 

She couldn’t wait to jump again. In the meantime, she could practice her spins and skating steps. Yennefer had glared at her when she first demonstrated her transitions. “ _ You wouldn’t make it to the senior level in ice dance.” _

Okay, fine, jumping was more her skillset than her performance value. But she was decent at it, even if never quite getting the top performance component scores in competitions she won. She was usually in the top three.

_ “Well, we’re going to get you first in PCS  _ and _ TES,” _ Yennefer had stated. “ _ Because unless you can learn a quad, you’re maxed out on your technical execution, and honestly, your PCS should be lower. It's just the triple axel that boosts you.”  _

Ciri laced her skates up, removing the guards at the edge of the rink. She slipped onto the ice, blades cutting across the fresh surface, braiding a trail of subtle lines behind her. She ran through her old program without any of the jumps. 

_ I need a new program.  _

When Yennefer arrived at eight, Ciri skidded towards the edge of the rink. She wondered if Yennefer would say something. Was that a bruise at the nape of her neck?

Yennefer adjusted her faux fur coat. “You look exhausted, Ciri. Going early to avoid me?”

Ciri scowled. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Huh. Seems to be a common conundrum today.” Yennefer sighed. “Fine, a good enough reason. But I don’t want you practicing your old program again.”

“I was just thinking about my new one,” Ciri said. “Ones. New for both short and long.” She had to win the crowd back. 

“I’ve seen your programs,” said Yennefer, tossing her dark hair. “Despite looking as if you were afraid to truly let yourself go during parts of them, they were very beautiful. And sad.”

“Mm.” Ciri couldn’t deny that she skated with the hopes of moving her audience to tears. Violins, flutes, drawn-out spirals and perfectly timed Biellmann spins could do wonders for PCS. 

“Stop trying to make your audience feel something,” Yennefer told her. “I’m not here for that.”

Ciri’s eyes bulged. “How else do you get PCS?” 

“Don’t force them to feel something,” said Yennefer. “Lure them in. Invite them. I want you to skate based on what you feel. Perform  _ your _ feelings.” 

Ciri swallowed. She grasped her water bottle, popping the cap open. 

“What are you thinking?” Yennefer asked her.

“Something… different,” Ciri answered. 

“Clearly,” said Yennefer. “In what way?”

Ciri opened her mouth. No answer came out. She tightened her grip on the edge of the rink. 

“You’re angry,” said Yennefer. 

“You’re not my therapist.” 

“No, but coaching is about the relationship as much as it’s about the technique.” Yennefer leaned over her. “You don’t have to decide until mid-October, I’d say. In the meantime, don’t skate according to what you think they want to see. Or according to what I want to see, or Triss, not yet. I want you to show me what  _ you _ can do. I’ll correct your technique if I see you using an edge on your lutz or getting crooked on your twizzles, but otherwise, it’s on you.” 

Ciri blew out her breath. Loose strands of ash-blonde hair fluttered in front of her. She pushed off from the rink.

Mistle, chattering with her at a party. Kissing her, and then they were in a room, and she wanted Mistle to stop but didn’t know how to say so, and Mistle didn’t hear what she did say. Or didn’t care.

_ “I didn’t think you’d get in trouble! I thought they only checked for steroids and the like!” _ Mistle insisted.

_ I’m angry, _ Ciri thought.  _ I’m angry, Mistle.  _

_ I loved you, but I didn’t know what else to do. _

_ I didn’t like it when you pushed me onto the bed.  _

_ Why didn’t you listen to me, Mistle?  _

She squeezed her eyes shut as she bent for a sit spin, and she saw Mistle above her, but not in Mistle’s room. A strange room that stank of rotting wood. 

_ Where am I smelling this from?  _ Ciri jerked upright, toppling back onto her ass instead of slowing out of the spin.  _ Shit!  _

“Why did you stop?” Yennefer hollered. “That was a good spin!” 

The air smelled only of clean ice. Ciri gulped, pushing herself back to her feet. “I didn’t eat breakfast yet.”

Yennefer scowled. “Eat, Ciri. Don’t forget to fuel yourself.” 

“I just forgot.” Ciri glided over to the edge. She didn’t feel as if she’d pulled or twisted anything in her fall. 

She spent the rest of the day trying to skate around without a program, trying to practice what she felt. Whatever that meant. Ciri wondered if Yennefer just wanted to make her into Yennefer 2.0, having her free dance all over the ice.  _ No thanks _ . 

They called it a day mid-afternoon. Ciri showered in the locker room and packed her bag, heading out. 

“Yennefer already left,” Angoulême informed her from where she lounged behind the front desk, playing Candy Crush on her phone. “It sounded like she was yelling at Geralt on her phone.” 

Ciri snorted. 

“Is it good they’re together, or is it a distraction?” asked Angoulême.

“I don’t know that one night makes a relationship, Angoulême,” Ciri countered, leaning over the counter.

“Pfft.” Angoulême crossed her legs over the arm of the chair. “You’re right; it makes a marriage.”

“Sometimes I really can’t tell whether you’re supposed to be scaring or impressing priests.” Angoulême was innocent and yet a night owl, scavenging to survive, doing what she had to, even if what she felt she had to was two random pills she found and a whole bottle of white wine. 

Angoulême wiggled her eyebrows. “I’m just trying to be me.” 

_ I don’t even know that I could hope for that. _

_ I have to be all things to all people. _

Yennefer’s words echoed.  _ Don’t perform for your audience. _

_ I’m always performing.  _ Except with Geralt. Ciri nodded, pulling back. “Don’t ever change.”

“Don’t worry!” called Angoulême, cursing at her phone as she missed a level in Candy Crush.

The sky was heavy and the air thick with a brewing thunderstorm. Ciri bet Ihuarraquax would be grumpy she’d left him all day, even if the cat really should be used to it. But no. Ihuarraquax acted as if every time she spent a full day in practice was akin to her announcing she was planning on skinning him. 

She tugged her damp hair off her neck, hurrying to her car. Blech, the humid stickiness was a suffocating change from the controlled frigidity of the ice rink.

She stopped right before her car. Her heart leaped to her throat. 

_ Him. _

_ God! _

The Black Knight. The one from her nightmare, the one who was the initial reason Ciri hated the press! Back when she was sixteen, this asshole had been hired by a rival skater to videotape her practices and used that to stage a collision during warm-ups before worlds. Fortunately, Ciri was not injured, but the asshole’s career sure was. The rival skater was banned, and when it came out she’d hired an eighteen-year-old private investigator who called himself  _ the Black Knight _ like some goth emo edgelord wannabe, he lost all credibility. 

Ciri didn’t even know his real name. She hadn’t cared. She just knew his face. 

“I-I just wanted to try to skate,” stammered the boy.

“Liar!” Ciri shoved him back against the car. “Do I need to take out a restraining order?”

“I’m not the one holding you by your throat,” he squeaked.

She loosened her hold. Fury built, flames leaping and catching every rib, every organ. _ How dare you?  _ “Are you threatening me?”  _ Working with Bonhart? _

“No!” He coughed.

“Fine, then.” She stepped back, swallowing, hands wringing. “Go rent skates from Angoulême.” 

The boy hesitated. His lips twisted as he watched the door to the rink, sunlight glinting off the glass. 

“I’ll even take you to her,” Ciri added, slick satisfaction in her tone.

His face drained.

“Unless, of course, you’re not here to skate, but here for me after all.” Ciri folded her arms. She was so tired of this, so tired of being lied to, tricked, treated like something for the public to consume and a cash cow for people she didn’t even know! “Does the Daily Mail need more headlines?  _ Disgraced Skater Returns to Practice? _ ” 

She hated it. She hated that she felt ashamed. She hated that this year, the year that was supposed to be her triumph after three years of buildup since she entered senior ranks at sixteen, had been squashed into a bloody pulp by these fucking reporters. 

_ It’s hard enough to balance on ice.  _

_ Why do you have to shove me over?  _

“Okay, fine,” said the boy. “I’m here for you. But to talk to you, not to—”

“Talk to my agent if you want an interview. He’ll hang up on you.” Ciri turned. She had to leave before she truly did punch him in his face. 

“I did and he did!” he hollered, hurrying after her. “I just—I wanted—”

“Go away!” Ciri whirled. “Keep following me and I’ll scream, Angoulême will come running and—” 

“I wanted to apologize!” he yelled. “Shit.” His shoulders hunched.

Ciri gaped at him. _ Apologize?  _

“It’s too late,” she said.

“But I had a dream,” he said softly. “I know this sounds crazy, believe me, Ciri—I know you won’t believe me, and maybe you shouldn’t, maybe I need a psychiatrist, but I dreamed that—about a fire, and you were terrified and—a castle where that Bonhart character—”

The fire. A spooky feeling flickered inside her. Ciri’s throat tightened. 

The castle, though, that was new. 

“I’ve never been in a fire,” Ciri said. 

“I know. I mean, I don’t know. But I’ve never heard anything about that, and neither have I. Definitely not with you. I—” 

“Please just leave me alone,” Ciri managed, eyes stinging. Crap, her voice was shaking now. “Can’t you please just leave me alone? If you’re really sorry, you’ll do what I ask. And you’ll send me Bonhart’s head.” Maybe she shouldn’t have said that. Someone unstable might take her literally. “ _ Not _ literally.” 

“I don’t work with him, or for Nilfgaardian Enterprises anymore.” 

“Well, isn’t that swell.” Ciri turned.

But he was walking away, head hanging. He pulled open the door to a car with a dent in the bumper. 

The Black Knight.

A helmet with raven’s wings.

A chilling bath, during which he averted his eyes. 

She didn’t understand that image, or anything. 

  
  



	2. Crossovers

“Ciri!” 

She shoved the door closed behind her. Ihuarraquax bounded over to her, winding around her ankles. She picked up the cat, carrying him into the kitchen, where Geralt and Jaskier sat.

“How was practice?”

“Yennefer’s… interesting,” Ciri said.

Jaskier snorted. Geralt swallowed.

“Apparently you find her interesting, too,” Ciri continued, pulling out a stool by the island and sitting. Geralt rubbed his forehead, avoiding her eyes. Ihuarraquax kneaded her lap, purring. 

Jaskier grinned. “So you got a sponsor offer, but I don’t think you’re gonna wanna take it.” 

Ciri froze. “Why not?” 

“It’s Nilfgaardian Enterprises again. Emhyr sent an email. He wants you in a commercial advertising his latest phone or laptop or whatever.” Jaskier rolled his eyes. “I would have deleted it like normal, except—”

“Except a lot of my other sponsors dropped me,” Ciri said numbly. No one wanted to sponsor a cocaine user, especially when the athlete competed in a sport popular with little girls. If she were a football player and a man, it would probably be laughed off as her just having fun. 

_ Mistle, why did you do that? Did you even love me, or just what I was to you?  _

Jaskier hesitated. “So, I wanted your input in the harsh email I’ll send him back.”

“That explains why that stupid Black Knight appeared at the rink today,” Ciri said, relieved. The dreams must have been bullshit. 

A fire? Both of them? 

She shivered. 

“He what?” Geralt’s eyes began to glow. He pushed his chair back with a scraping sound, getting to his feet as if he was about to grab his coat and a shovel and march outside to hunt down the kid.

“Don’t bother; he left me alone,” said Ciri.  _ So much for an apology.  _ And what a liar. He still worked at Nilfgaardian Enterprises. “What did Emhyr’s email say?”

“Some junk about how he was willing to take a chance on you because he  _ believes in you,”  _ Jaskier said in an affected voice. “Or. Well. Vilgefortz said as much; of course Emhyr wouldn’t deign to call a lowly agent on his own and would make his public relations manager do it.” 

“Tell him to believe in my ability to tell him to stuff his offers up his ass. I’m not signing with a company that does nothing to address its environmental impact, not to mention its workers’ rights.” Ciri sat up straighter. Still, an ache settled in her chest. A year ago, when she turned down the sponsorship, people praised her integrity. Now everyone would probably mock her. No matter. She wouldn’t budge. 

“Mind if I make it even more colorful?” asked Jaskier.

“By all means, please. Scatter the  _ fucks _ to the wind.” Ciri scratched Ihuarraquax’s ears. “I’m going to take a nap.” 

Of course, she wasn’t asleep for more than twenty minutes when she found herself running. 

_ “You are the lion cub of Cintra.” _

_ “Grandmother?”  _

And then she saw Yennefer and heard the sound of death all around her. Yennefer barely glanced over her shoulder.  _ “Go, my daughter.” _ Her feet carried her, hauling her down the hallway. 

She slashed her sword at the Black Knight. His helmet fell. He vomited blood. His hand tried to stop her sword. 

She did not want to kill him.

She dropped the sword. And then she was back in the fire, but there were no flames this time. She staggered through a desert, dying from thirst.

A white unicorn appeared. Sand prickled against her chest. 

“Gah!” Ciri’s eyes flew open. Ihuarraquax’s claws dug into her chest, the cat peering mere inches from her eyes. Sweat poured down her face. She shoved the cat off, clasping her forehead. Her arms shook.

_ “Ciri!”  _

She peered up. Geralt and Jaskier both appeared in her doorway, eyes wide.

“You were screaming,” Geralt said.

“Nightmare,” Ciri mumbled. “Sorry.” She tried to haul herself out of bed. Her legs buckled. 

Geralt grabbed her before she fell. “Ciri!”

“I’m fine,” Ciri insisted, straightening. 

Geralt did not look convinced. Jaskier gulped in the background. “Is your foot still bothering you?”

“It actually hasn’t hurt at all today.” Ciri grabbed her water bottle from where it rested on her messy desk, chugging. “It was just a bad dream.”

“Huh,” said Jaskier. “I had a real doozy last night. Geralt, you were there. Some sort of devilish creature that looked like a human mated with a goat was hurling iron balls at us. Then, we got captured by elves who were going to kill us both. Dreadful.”

Ciri’s stomach lurched.  _ More _ dreams? Was there something in the water? What if she was cursing everyone? No, no, that was ridiculous. She was being stupid, narcissistic even. Paranoid for sure. She wiped her palms on her leggings. 

“What about you, Geralt? Any nightmares you want to share?” teased Jaskier. “I bet a psychologist could—” 

Ciri’s heart pounded.  _ You didn’t dream last night. Please, you didn’t dream last night, Geralt, please.  _

“I dreamed about fighting a djinn with Yennefer,” Geralt said reluctantly. “A genie creature.”

_ Last night? Or earlier? _ He didn’t specify. At least that didn’t sound like a total nightmare. 

_ I really am going crazy. _ Her eyes stung.  _ How am I actually worried about this?  _

“Aha, well, I’m sure you can reenact that—” Jaskier yelped as Geralt threw him a silencing glare. He threw his hands up in the air, scurrying out of Ciri’s room. “Don’t kill me!” 

“I’ll talk to Vysogota,” Ciri said to Geralt, blinking back her concerns. “Don’t worry about me.”

“That’s my job,” Geralt returned. He did not seem to buy her insistence that everything was fine.

“They were very vivid nightmares,” Ciri said. “That’s all.” 

Geralt hesitated, and then patted her head. 

“What about you and Yennefer?” She couldn’t resist asking. “Are you back together?”

Geralt’s face reddened. “For old time’s sake. We are both adults, we—”

“If she makes you happy, then that’s good,” Ciri said, fiddling with the keys she’d tossed onto her dresser. 

“Do you like her as a coach, Ciri?” His tone made it clear he wanted the truth. Not what she thought he wanted to hear. The unvarnished reality. 

“I don’t know,” Ciri said. “I didn’t at first. She said some interesting things today. We’ll see.”  _ She’s probably the reason I’m telling you the truth right now _ . How ironic. 

Geralt nodded. 

Ciri told him she was going to walk Roach, Geralt’s oversized German shepherd. She just needed to clear her thoughts. Roach wagged his tail, happy to stretch his gigantic legs. 

When her grandmother died when Ciri was ten, she wound up in Geralt Rivia’s care despite having only met him once before, at the age of six. She met him after she’d tried to run away, having heard Geralt was a friend of her parents’, Pavetta and Duny. They had died in a boating accident when she was not even two. It was something the media liked to harp on, liked to exploit:  _ look at how much tragedy she’s overcome to be world champion!  _

Only  _ that _ kind of tragedy, though. The ones it deemed acceptable, like losing your entire family in your first decade of life.

She gritted her teeth.  _ I’m going to overcome this, too. You watch.  _ She still had her triple axels—or, hopefully would. They made her nearly unbeatable. 

She remembered when Geralt came for her, after her grandmother left her in his care. He hadn’t seemed to know what to do with a girl, constantly second-guessing himself. At least Mousesack was still her coach then, still a constant in her life, and Mousesack was the one who introduced them to Triss Merigold. A nurse and dancer, she was still Ciri’s choreographer. Triss and Geralt dated for a while, but then split amicably. 

_ “Why?” _ Ciri had asked Triss when she was fifteen, preparing for her first senior season, in which she went on to make the Grand Prix final, where she won a surprise silver, and then went on to win worlds. Ciri had not lost an event since. 

_ “He’s a great guy,”  _ Triss assured Ciri, shifting Ciri’s arms so that they were posed just how Triss wanted.  _ “But he still carries a torch for his ex. He’ll probably never let her go.” _

_ “Who is that?”  _

Triss laughed.  _ “None of your business, nosy.”  _ She pinched Ciri’s nose. 

_ “Yennefer Vengerberg,” _ Jaskier told Ciri when she asked him, without a single moment of hesitation.  _ “The ice dancer. He would’ve married her, but she was scared of commitment and ran.” _

Ciri didn’t think Yennefer was the only one who was scared, but she’d never said as much. Now, years and lifetime achievements later, she might have to. 

_ Don’t be scared, Geralt.  _

Roach whined when they returned to the apartment complex’s parking lot. “What is it?” Ciri asked.

Roach sniffled. Ciri rounded the parked car to see her neighbor doubled over, vomiting onto the weeds growing among the flowers. Milva squeezed her eyes shut, a putrid smell filling the air.

“Milva!” Ciri darted over to her, pulling her hair back.  _ She must be really sick.  _

“’S okay, Ciri,” Milva rasped, digging the heels of her hands into the mulch. “Just sick.”

“Yeah, you were sick this morning too.” Ciri reached down, helping Milva to her feet. “Let’s get you inside. Can Geralt and I bring you soup, or—” 

“Don’t bother,” Milva managed as Ciri unlocked the door and kicked Milva’s open. “I’m not sick.”

“Lies.” Ciri snorted, stepping inside Milva’s tiny apartment. The downstairs was much less nice than the upstairs flat she shared with Geralt. Milva’s couch was threadbare, her kitchen cabinets were crooked and held only chipped dishes and a few pans, and her bedroom was scarcely large enough for her bed. Ciri had enough money so that she and Geralt could move to a nicer place, but Milva was like an older sister, and she didn’t want to leave. She’d lost enough. “Do you want tea or toast?” That was what Grandmother used to give Ciri when she was sick.

Roach sat on the floor, tail thumping. 

Milva shook her head. “Nausea’s just really bad today.”

“Today?” Ciri echoed, helping Milva lie down on the couch. She arranged a pillow under Milva’s back. 

Milva arched her brows. “I’m probably pregnant.” 

Ciri froze.  _ Pregnant? _ Milva was only a year or two older than her, emancipated at sixteen.  _ How?  _ No, that was a dumb question. “Whose?”

Milva closed her eyes. “Mine.”

“Right,” said Ciri, swallowing. Her throat felt dry, parched like in her dream. “It doesn’t matter. I want to—can I help?”

Milva didn’t respond. 

“Have you seen a doctor?” Ciri ventured. Was that what pregnant women were supposed to do? How would she know? 

“No,” mumbled Milva. “I haven’t even taken a test.”

Ciri blinked. “What?” 

“I’m too scared to.”

“If it’s not positive, then you won’t have to worry!” Ciri grabbed Milva’s wrists, crouching down. “How many days have you been sick for?” 

Milva shook her head and cringed as if she regretted the movement. “Gradually for… a couple weeks? It’s gotten worse the past few days.”

“You could be really sick! You need to see a doctor.” Ciri pulled out her phone. She should text Regis. No, Regis was a sports doctor. Would he even know what to do about pregnancy?

“I don’t want it to be true,” Milva whispered. 

_ You’re afraid. _ A lump filled Ciri’s throat. “Well, you can’t decide anything until you know.” 

Milva grimaced. Roach whined. 

“Well,” said Ciri. “I’m feeling a little  _ fuck it all _ right now.” She stepped back. “I’ll be right back.”

“Ciri—”

“I  _ want _ to help!” She knew it wasn’t a good idea. She didn’t care. It was only a short drive and she was bloody tired of her need to protect herself keeping her from being a damn human. 

She dropped Roach off and went back downstairs. When Milva first moved in, she was shy but fierce, and Ciri liked having someone around who wasn’t that much older than her. Geralt would let Ciri invite Milva over for dinner, seemingly glad to see her making friends. She used to sneak Milva into the rink with Angoulême’s help, since Milva couldn’t afford it herself. But Milva worked hard and was attending community college on her own. She staunchly refused any of Ciri’s financial offers, though, and Ciri had long since learned not to ask. 

When she got out of the car, she shoved a baseball cap over her hair and slipped sunglasses on despite the evening’s indigo shadows. She made her way into the pharmacy, snatching one of the EPT kits and making it to the self-checkout lines. No one gave her a second glance. She didn’t even bother to grab a bag, tossing it onto the passenger seat. 

_ Success _ . Ciri drove back to the apartment complex, parking her car. She hopped out, carrying the test. 

And halted. “Ah, shit.” 

Both men’s eyes instantly landed on the box in her arms. 

_ Double shit. _ “It’s not mine! It’s not for me!” Could someone please just cancel this day already? 

Black Knight averted his eyes, as if it were inappropriate for him to see. Geralt’s face turned purple. Ciri felt as if her blood were scalding her skin from the inside. 

“It’s for Milva!” Ciri shouted. “Our neighbor!” Oh, goddammit, she shouldn’t have yelled that. “And I’m going inside to give it to her right now. Don’t you both know I date girls?” Okay, she liked both men and women. Whatever. Mistle was her only relationship. “Don’t you think I have enough problems without being knocked up?” 

“Of course,” Geralt said. “I mean. Yes. Go inside. Or, you can do what you want.” He turned back to the Black Knight, his brows pinching. “And if you say anything of the sort to anyone, especially Emhyr, I’ll see to it that you wind up in a coff—”

_ Oh lord _ . “Did you come over here to find me? Do I need to press stalking charges now?” Ciri demanded.

“No,” eked out the boy. “Geralt c-called me and—”

Was clearly threatening him. Ciri rubbed her temple. “Why would you call him  _ here?” _

“So that Jaskier can ensure I don’t kill him,” said Geralt. “Because he stopped by here two days ago to warn me about Em—” 

Oh, right. That reminded her. “You lied earlier! You’re still working for Emhyr! He emailed—” 

“I am not!” the boy insisted. “But you need to be careful! Emhyr doesn’t take refusals well, and I know from what—I used to do—what Bonhart is. He was hired by someone, probably Emhyr or that slimeball Vilgefortz. He’s not a paparazzi freelancer. He’s hired to ruin people’s reputations and lives. It’s not about digging up dirt; it’s about digging up dirt and burying them in it. If he sold those stories, he probably also called the federation to get them to drug test you. It’s probably not a coincidence that they showed up the day after you tried cocaine—”

“I did not try it!” Ciri wanted to hurt the EPT in his face. “And it’s none of your business!” 

“Why the fuck would Emhyr care enough about a contract to try to ruin her life?” demanded Geralt.

“He’s a psychotic conspiracy theorist, the natural progression of goth edgelord,” Ciri mocked. The boy’s face turned bright red. “And next time tell me when someone tries to warn you about something related to me, Geralt! And talk to me about the problem, not to my father, and don’t blather about absurd dreams when you do talk to me—Whoever You Are!” 

“Cahir Mawr Dryffyn aep Caellach,” said the boy. Geralt looked properly abashed. 

“I’m sorry, did you swallow a fly?”

“Cahir Mawr—”

“Oh my god, that’s your name,” Ciri said. “My condolences.” 

“Cahir’s my name, the rest is because my mother is the daughter of Dryffyn, and my—”

Ciri ignored him, storming inside. Poor Milva was probably listening to this disaster. Maybe more entertaining than anything on her small television. She opened the door, tossing the EPT kit to Milva. “Here you go. I had to fight a battle to get it.”

“I heard,” Milva said dryly, hauling herself up. Green still tinged her face. Her lips puckered.

Ciri waited on the couch. Whatever else was going on out there, at least Geralt probably realized  _ Adopted Father Arrested for Murder _ wasn’t a headline that would help Ciri, and so was quiet. 

The bathroom door opened. Milva looked pale, but slightly better.

“What’s the news?” Ciri asked, leaning forward.

Milva flopped down next to her, burying her face in a throw pillow. She didn’t have to say it. 

Ciri put her hand on Milva’s shoulder. 

“I’ll get rid of it,” Milva mumbled. “I’m probably like… ten weeks? Maybe more.” 

“Your first trimester is almost over, then. You should hurry,” Ciri said. “I bet Regis can recommend some good doctors who will do it.” 

Milva pulled her knees to her chest. Ciri swallowed more words. Maybe  _ hurry _ wasn’t the message Milva needed right now. 

“I’d have to drop out of school,” Milva said quietly. “Or scrounge up enough—”

“I would force you to let me pay for a procedure,” Ciri said. Her heart pounded. She didn’t care. She didn’t want Milva to have to deal with this kind of worry just because her father had died and her mother didn’t care enough about her daughter to protect her from her abusive stepfather. 

No one left Milva to a family friend. Ciri’s eyes stung. Milva didn’t have a team of agents and choreographers and exes who were now coaches to support her. 

_ If it’s only me, I’ll do what I can do _ . 

The door opened with a creak. Ciri lifted her gaze. 

“He’s gone,” Geralt offered her. He shut the door behind him. 

Milva wrapped her arms around her legs and the pillow, blocking Geralt from sight. 

Geralt sighed. Clearly, he didn’t need to hear it out loud. 

“What am I going to do?” whispered Milva. “Why can’t I—save what I want to save? Why am I always at the mercy of—”

“You’re not,” Geralt said, gesturing for Ciri to move. She scooted to the side, allowing Geralt to sit next to Milva. The three of them were cramped together on this couch. “There are some things you can’t save, and it’s not your fault. Your circumstances—it’s not your fault.”

_ That you were born into a family without the resources mine had.  _

The public’s scorn hurt Ciri enough. She couldn’t imagine the rejection of her own mother, or Geralt actually being a creep. 

She felt her throat close slightly, and remembered the collar from her dream, the jeers of people as she stripped in public. 

“Ciri was my chance,” Geralt said. “To save something, someone. You, too. It’s your choice. Save yourself, however that looks like. Ciri and I will help you no matter what you decide, because you’re not alone and you’re not weak.” 

Ciri recalled what Geralt had said when he found that article. He had hugged her, told her she didn’t deserve any of this. When her test came back positive for cocaine, he listened to her, believed her, told her it was her choice what to do with Mistle, even though Ciri had already made up her mind. 

Milva blew out her breath, shaky. “Thank you.” 

* * *

“Well,” said Vysogota. “It certainly sounds like you had a wild day, Cirilla.” The grandfather clock behind the therapist ticked and tocked. 

The man’s own cat curled up on the couch next to Ciri, which certainly meant that Ihuarraquax was going to accuse her of cheating when she got home. But for now, she was grateful for the creature’s comfort. It had been two weeks from that day, and Milva had decided to keep her pregnancy. Ciri was going to accompany her to her appointment later this week. 

“Truthfully, the craziness doesn’t bother me,” said Ciri. “What bothers me is the nightmares.” They hadn’t abated. The same ones, over and over and over, and some pleasant dreams repeating too. Grandmother in a crown. Listening to Geralt and Yennefer talk.

_ Go, my daughter.  _

Vysogota nodded. “It’s a lot.” 

“It’s not fair,” Ciri admitted. “It doesn’t seem fair. All of this—and now my own brain decides to send all these nightmares to burn me?”  _ I’m scared. _ “And hearing others have them too—does this mean I’m losing my mind, or going—” 

“No, Ciri,” said Vysogota, taking her hand. She sniffled, looking into his eyes. She couldn’t talk. Her voice was glass about to shatter, and the shards might cut her throat from the inside out. 

_ Help me. Help me. _

“It’s a terrible time for you,” said Vysogota. “But you are stronger than you believe. And you should not have to be so strong.” 

_ Be strong. Be strong.  _ It echoed in Grandmother’s voice.

_ Lion cub of Cintra.  _

She didn’t understand. Grandmother had never called her a lion cub.

“If you’re in pain,” said Vysogota. “Like Mistle was, you said. Use it. You don’t have to use it as a weapon like she did. You can use it as a tool. You can use it, even if it’s a sharp blade, to stick into the rock wall you’re climbing, use it to haul yourself up.”

Ciri swallowed. “Thank you.” 

She thought of Bonhart and Cahir Mawr—whatever’s—warning. Was the man really stalking her? What, did he want to keep her on a chain, a leash like in her nightmares? How could that even benefit Emhyr, if Emhyr had hired him? He couldn’t destroy everything in her life, or else she’d have no value to him. 

_ Either way. _

_ I’m not your tool.  _

* * *

“I gave her the Zofran.” Yennefer’s voice filtered in through Ciri’s door. She frowned, shifting on her bed. She was supposed to be getting ready for bed, but had fallen into the trap of watching YouTube cat and dog videos instead. Or, rather, had gleefully walked the plank herself. 

She’d dreamed last night about a tower rising on an island, a school of magic that seemed decidedly less cheerful than Hogwarts. Part of her wanted to fall into that dream again. Part of her feared she’d regret it if she did. 

“Regis said it was best for nausea,” said Geralt’s voice.

“Mm.” Yennefer sighed.

“What are you thinking, Yen?”

_ Yen _ . Ciri had never heard her called that. 

“Ciri’s practices are going well. She can land the double axel with room to spare again; she should be landing triple axels by nationals without a concern. She still needs to pick her programs, though.” 

“Don’t you usually decide that first?”

“Yes, but Ciri wants to be picky.”

Ciri scowled. Well, if she was going to go to the Olympics, she needed to do her best, overcome what she’d done at worlds. 

“You mean you want to be picky.”

Yennefer changed the subject. “Triss is coming next week. That won’t be awkward for you?”

“She’s your best friend, Yen.”

“She is,” Yennefer confirmed, a slight tease to her voice. 

“Is it hard for you?” Geralt asked. Ciri’s ears perked up.

“Coaching? I—”

“We both know that’s not what I meant.”

“If you think I’d take out my infertility on a poor girl who’s pregnant and scared—”

“I didn’t ask if you took it out on her. I asked if you felt a certain way.”

Ciri bit her lip. Blood tasted bitter in her mouth. Yennefer couldn’t have children? 

“How do you think I feel?” Yennefer asked, her voice catching. 

From the sound of her voice, Yennefer wanted them. Desperately. 

_ It’s not fair.  _

_ Life isn’t giving you what you want, and for the first time, there’s nothing you can do about it.  _

_ How do you keep fighting? You and Geralt, both?  _

Ciri hesitated, studying the latest headlines.  _ With Ciri’s Absence, Who Stands the Best Shot of Winning the Grand Prix? _

She shut her laptop, casting it aside. Ihuarraquax immediately plopped onto it, reveling in the warmth. Ciri headed for the door. 

“Yennefer,” she said. 

The woman paused, turning her lilac eyes to Ciri. Her fingers traced the rim of her wine glass. 

“I know the themes I want for both my short and free skate,” said Ciri. 

_ I will not be chased and cowed by my nightmares or my losses.  _

_ I’ll make them serve me.  _

“Oh?” Yennefer arched a brow. Geralt leaned forward. “Do tell.”

“The short,” Ciri said. “I want it to be edgy. Eerie, sexy, a sorceress who’s lost it all but keeps going and whose allure doesn’t fade. For the long, I want to portray a… warrior finally winning. I want it to be epic and legendary.”

“That’s… vague, but I like the concepts,” said Yennefer. “Triss and I can work with that.” 

Ciri smirked. “It’s from some dreams that I had.” 

Nightmares.

_ Nightmares are just dreams.  _

  
  
  



	3. Lunge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dorks on ice

“How do you like these?” Yennefer asked, turning her laptop around on her knees. “Tissaia just sent these to me.” 

Ciri peered at the images on the screen. She had planned to use her usual costume maker, but Yennefer had mentioned that her old coach did costumes now after a fall from grace herself, and Ciri wanted to cut as many ties as possible with how she was known in the figure skating world. 

“I like them,” Ciri said. The costume for the short had a halter neck, a collar just like she’d wanted. Otherwise, it was black, a bodysuit with pants as opposed to the skirts Ciri usually wore. Crystals embedded on the neckline gave it a fancy look. 

She’d decided on Yukata Yamada’s “Licht und Schatten” for her short program, and Thomas Bergerson’s “Creation of Life” for her free; the latter more than a little influenced by the incorporation of a lion’s roars. 

_ “You’re not allowed to put on cat ears and a tail, _ ” Yennefer had warned her.  _ “No furries in my programs.” _

Triss was here all month, helping her choreograph her programs. 

_ “I want a sexy look for the first one,” _ Ciri had said.  _ “Everyone knows I’m not some innocent cotton candy sculpture anymore. I might as well show them. But I don’t want to let them have me either, be what they want me to be.” _

_ “We can work with that,” _ Triss had agreed

“Your first competition is less than a month away,” Yennefer added. 

“I know.” Golden Spin at Zagreb was an easy competition since it was held the same weekend as the Grand Prix Final, where all her main competition would be. Nationals were five weeks after that, and the Olympics two weeks later. She’d been nailing triple axels for the past month. She could do this. 

“Speaking of your competition, I know you were at the rink last night,” Yennefer added. “Couldn’t sleep, or more nightmares?” 

“Wanted to have fun,” Ciri retorted. “Angoulême and I took Milva.”

“She’s like six months now.”

“So?” Ciri shrugged. “We wouldn’t let her fall.” So far, Milva seemed to be juggling school and pregnancy well, but she knew Milva was still worried. 

But she wanted the child. 

Ciri was still dreaming, months after they began. Vysogota wasn’t concerned so long as she wasn’t starting to think they were real.  _ “Sounds like you’ve got the makings of a novel.” _

_ They’re not real, _ Ciri told herself.  _ They’re not real _ . She refused to let herself think of Cahir or his warnings about Bonhart. She’d stopped asking about dreams, and practiced going back to sleep after the more terrifying ones. She was steamrolling her nightmares into her normal. 

“All right then.” Yennefer rolled her eyes. “We’re done for the day.”

Ciri nodded, heading to shower and change in the locker room. She had therapy afterwards. Massaging citrus shampoo into her scalp, feet stinging from where her new boots had chafed the skin raw, Ciri hoped. 

A flash. She was—somewhere else? A strange man was leading her, speaking strange words. She was alone in a bed, a strange man prying himself up, a slick, sick feeling of disgust and shame welling up inside of her, failure compressing her into a tiny ball. 

Her friend Angoulême, hair ash blond just like Ciri’s own, bleeding out in her arms. Asking to become a countess.  _ Princess _ .

Ciri’s eyes flew open. The shampoo stung. She swore, sticking her eyes under the water to rinse the substance away. She glanced down at her hands.

They were trembling. 

Ciri finished up and drove to therapy. She wanted to blurt out the full story. She couldn’t. “Yennefer asked me about dreams. I told her I wasn’t having them. It was a lie.” 

_ I’ve had two when I’m awake now. But for the first time since summer. _

_ Please, I’m scared.  _

“They’re not affecting your functioning,” Vysogota observed. “You still seem to be doing well, and to be grounded in reality.”

That was a relief to hear, at least. “My own dreams are gaslighting me, then.”

He’d chuckled. “I don’t think so. If you were hallucinating, then, that would be one thing, but—”

“Hallucinating?” Ciri echoed. “No.” Right? Or was what happened back in the summer, when she did that sit spin, or in the shower? But she didn’t think they were real—it was like a waking dream. And both times she’d shut her eyes. 

She kept quiet.  _ I’m not hallucinating. I’m not going to miss the Olympics because of some fantasy dreams! _ She curled her fists, digging her nails into her palms. She could only imagine what the news would say about her then. 

“When did they start?” Vysogota asked. “I know this summer, but did you ever have dreams like this before—”

“No. I mean, I’ve had dreams, but not like these.” Ciri sighed. “After Mistle and I broke up, after the news—actually, the first one was soon after Yennefer got here. The first night she and Geralt spent together.”

“Do you like her?”

“Yes,” Ciri said, believing it. “As a coach, she’s good.”

“How do you feel about her and Geralt together?”

“I like them,” Ciri insisted, Vysogota’s cat crawling onto her lap as if it knew she needed comfort. She stroked the kitty between the ears. “I like seeing both of them happy.” If she was a superstitious person, she might think Yennefer had placed a hex on her. But Ciri was not.

“Could you be afraid of being left behind?” Vysogota asked. “Could that be the cause of your dreams? You might fear losing Geralt the way you lost your parents, your grandmother. It’s a lot of change for one person to go through at one time, Ciri. You’re under tremendous pressure. The public who said you were their hero suddenly acts like they don’t know you. That must hurt your self-worth. But you  _ do _ have worth, to Geralt and just as yourself. You’re his daughter in every way except blood.” 

Ciri swallowed. The cat started kneading her. Her eyes stung. “Maybe? Maybe that’s it.” It was better than bringing up the other possibility, the possibility she knew Vysogota would not like to hear: 

_ I’m sometimes afraid the dreams are real. _

But Vysogota’s explanation made so much more sense, and she had competitions to focus on. 

* * *

“All righty, all righty,” Jaskier announced cheerfully. “In preparation for Zagreb, several reporters have been asking me if they can interview you.”

“Depends on what they want to ask me,” said Ciri, leaning over the island in the kitchen and crunching on a carrot. “Sure. But not if they’re going to pry.” 

Yennefer poured herself a glass of jasmine tea. Geralt leaned back against the wall, arms folded over her chest. 

_ I’m afraid of being left behind. _

_ I’m not a fully good person. _

_ You’d still love me anyways, wouldn’t you? _ Even if Geralt and Jaskier and Yennefer knew what had happened with Mistle… 

“We can set parameters,” Jaskier agreed. “And reject anyone with ties to Bonhart or Nilfgaardian Enterprises.”

She believed so, but she was afraid to step out. If the ice cracked, she would fall in and it would close over her, sealing her in a coffin of a lake, suffocating her. 

Yennefer glugged her drink, still wearing just a cami despite the weather.

“Okay.” Ciri jabbed the half-carrot at Jaskier. “Tell them Yennefer will be with me.”

Yennefer choked on her drink. “I will?”

“What?” asked Geralt.

“Me and my new coach,” Ciri said. “That’s the deal. Tell whomever isn’t an asshole that they can take it or leave it.” 

Yennefer’s brows shot up. 

Jaskier smirked. “Okay, then.”

A week later and a woman named Philippa Eilhart and her trusty, stupid cameraman Dijkstra were setting up to film Ciri in the rink. Angoulême kept teasing that if Ciri didn’t want to be videotaped, she was perfectly willing to go out there and fake it for Ciri. 

“The two of you are friends?” asked Philippa, eyes narrowing on Angoulême. Jaskier said he’d chosen this reporter because, even though she was, in his words, “a self-centered story grubber” she was “fair, and also a lesbian, so she might be sensitive to your story.” 

“We are,” said Angoulême, wrapping an arm around Ciri’s waist. “No, I’m not her rebound. We’re just bffls. We started skating together when we were in grade school. Also, don’t print that.”

Yennefer snorted. Ciri rolled her eyes. 

Ciri agreed to give Philippa and Dijkstra some footage from her practice, but they couldn’t actually record her programs. She wanted to wait to debut them. Zagreb wouldn’t be televised, but it was likely someone would record her programs. No matter. She wanted them to be seen by an audience. 

When the time came for the sit-down interview, Philippa asked her some questions about her themes for her programs, and she explained. They were in a small meeting room within the rink building. 

“Could you say that your experiences last spring affected your programs?” asked Philippa.

“Yes,” Ciri said, biting her lip. “That’s fair to say.” 

“Why did you rush back into figure skating?” asked Philippa. “You could have taken some time away, let the ruckus die down.”

“Because…” Ciri swallowed. She hated these kinds of interviews. Her gaze flickered towards Yennefer, casually sitting next to her. With an obsidian star necklace and her hair perfectly styled, thick and dark, Yennefer looked utterly unflustered and in control. Ciri drew in her breath, mimicking Yennefer’s slight slouch, the tilt of her chin.  _ You don’t own me _ . “I’ve been working for this my whole life, you know? The Olympics. I don’t want to let a bad faith, clickbait article ruin that. The cocaine was a mistake, and the brief suspension was warranted, but it wasn’t taken intentionally. A friend testified to the federation that s-they put it in my drink as a joke. Several friends testified that they’d never seen me do it.”

“Couldn’t it be said that you shouldn’t have been hanging out with those sorts of people? Put yourself in that position?” Philippa pressed.

Yennefer shifted in her seat, clearly irate at Philippa’s line of questioning. Her long nails clacked against the arm of her chair as she drummed them. 

“I don’t think there’s a kind of person,” Ciri said. “You trust people, or you don’t. Sometimes you trust people and they don’t respect that. And you learn. I’m young, and I’m glad I’ve got another chance. I think people forget that I’m a real person, with a real life and with real emotions.”

“Would you say that there’s pressure on you, as a figure skater, to be a role model?”

“Yes,” Ciri said, meeting Yennefer’s glance. “I would. And responsibility. But I’d prefer to be the kind of role model who makes mistakes and grows from them. I don’t think we’re doing anyone any services by presenting ourselves as polished dolls that never feel anything except joy and that never make mistakes. We’re not gods. At least, I’m not.”

Yennefer smiled slightly. Under the table, she gave a subtle thumbs-up to Ciri.

Ciri grinned. 

“If you had to choose a role model—”

“Yennefer,” Ciri said. “And Triss, my choreographer. And Geralt, my adoptive father, because without him—without any of them, I wouldn’t be here. My friend you met earlier, Angoulême; my neighbor, Milva; my agent, Jaskier.”

Philippa nodded. “So, about the girl you were seen kissing—” 

_ Oh, fuck it. _ She didn’t want to hide.  _ Let me be that role model.  _ “Yes,” Ciri said. “I’m bisexual. And I’m proud of that, and you can print that. In fact,  _ please _ print it. But it’s in no way okay for a reporter to out me like that, or to trash my ex’s life and dredge up her history to get at me. That’s bullying. She’s not a public figure.” 

Philippa’s brows stayed shot up. A small smile began to form on her lips. 

* * *

“You did it!” 

“I did what?” Ciri asked, a crease in her cheek from the strange pillow she’d slept on. She pushed herself up in her hotel room. 

“#welcomebackciri is trending on Twitter,” Angoulême reported.

“Please tell me you do not have one of those stan accounts.”

“It’s anonymous, under the username of @countnightengale.” Angoulême sniffed. “The article came out, and everyone loves it. Jaskier will probably call you later.” 

Ciri winced, shifting the clock to look at it. “Maybe not. Competition’s tonight; he usually won’t call until after.”

“Well, knock ’em dead, and if you get tired of channeling Yennefer in your seductive short, channel me instead.” Angoulême hung up. 

Ciri snorted. She fell back onto the hotel bed, her arms stretched out. Daylight fell through her window, the gentle silver of morning. For the first time in a long time, she felt like welcoming it. Last night, her dreams were only about her grandmother, yet again, calling her  _ lion cub of Cintra. _

It was almost amusing. Cintra, like her name. As if it were some kind of land. 

She liked hearing Grandmother’s voice, even if only in her dreams. 

She hauled herself out of bed and practiced in the morning. When the time for the competition came, Yennefer helped her slip into her costume, fixing her hair in its usual bun to keep it out of her face when she was concentrating on mohawks and rockers. 

When she took the ice she closed her eyes, shutting out the—admittedly small—crowd. She turned towards the judges. _ Please don’t downgrade me because you think I’m a coke addict. _

No, she wouldn’t focus on that. She would focus on Yennefer, waiting in the wings; on Geralt, who was probably watching a livestream. When the first notes of the music floated over her, she let her mind float away, focusing only on the idea of the two of them. 

_ I like you together. _

_ Maybe I’ve worried you will leave me behind. _

_ You won’t. I trust you.  _

The moment she landed her first jump, the triple axel, with only a turn out of it, she knew the rest of the program would be easy.

Yennefer greeted her with a hug when she finished, passing Ciri her skate guards and helping her to the kiss and cry. 

“You did well,” Yennefer said, clasping Ciri’s elbow. “But next time, perform like you rather than trying to perform like how you think I’d want you to perform. Find your own version of sexiness. It can derive from mine, but it can’t be mine, thank you.” 

“Huh?” Ciri arched her brows. She didn’t understand. Triss meticulously choreographed the entire program; it wasn’t as if Ciri could deviate from it. 

“I can’t teach you that,” Yennefer said. “Up to you.” 

Ciri scowled. Her score came in: 77.25. Not bad. Not her best, which she’d expected after the turn out of her axel, but enough so that she knew no one could beat her in the short. 

She fell once in the free, on her stupid triple loop, but after landing two triple axels, she knew she’d won anyways. 

“Good skate,” Yennefer confirmed. “But you need to stop looking afraid to grasp your victory. Go out there and win. You’re slightly hesitant in your choreography, as if you’re asking us for permission to win. Audience or judges, I don’t know, but either way: don’t ask. Just take your victory from them.” 

Ciri couldn’t help but laugh at that advice. Yennefer rolled her eyes. 

_ I do have to earn it. I’m not flawless. _

_ And I want to do my best.  _

When her plane landed, Ciri and Yennefer both hurried through the airport to where Jaskier and Geralt were waiting. Geralt gave Ciri a quick hug. “Proud of you,” he said, voice gruff.

“Got more sponsorship offers from people who aren’t douchebags,” Jaskier proclaimed, beaming. “One wants you for a car commercial.”

“Do I get a free car?” Ciri joked, slinging her bag over her shoulder as they headed out of the airport and into the winter twilight. A light dusting of snow rested on the ground. Ciri almost felt like skipping. 

“Sadly, no, but you might be able to afford a new one.” 

“Nice skate, lion cub of Cintra!” called out another voice.

_ The devil himself. _

Ciri drew to a halt. Geralt whirled. Yennefer’s eyes narrowed. Jaskier winced. 

Bonhart leaned back against his SUV, smoking like he wanted to remind himself of his true habitat in the abyss, right beside the Lake of Fire. 

_ Lion cub. _

_ Lion cub of Cintra. _

How did he know? Had he drugged her with something? Something to control her thoughts? No, no, that was insane, that was paranoid, she wasn’t insane and she wasn’t paranoid! 

“Why are you calling me that?” Ciri lashed out. Yennefer grasped her shoulder, holding her back. “How did you—” 

“Nice lion roars in that program,” Bonhart said. “I—”

Geralt marched over to him, drawing back his fist. 

“Geralt, you—” Yennefer yelled. 

A slam. Bonhart fell back against the car, blood running in red rivulets from his nose. Ciri cried out. 

“Get out of here!” Jaskier shoved Yennefer and Ciri. “I’ll deal with—”

“He’ll get arrested!” Yennefer shouted. She drew back her hand, as if she was planning on slicing Bonhart’s face with her lengthy nails. 

_ No. No.  _ Ciri’s heart pounded. Not when everything was going well!

“Take my car.” Jaskier shoved his keys into Yennefer’s hands. Yennefer swore, pulling Ciri along. Bonhart swung at Geralt, who just managed to dodge.

_ How does he know?  _ Ciri’s mind swirled. Was it that fucking Cahir? No, she hadn’t said as much to him, hadn’t told him that. She hadn’t even told Angoulême about “lion cub of Cintra,” for fear it sounded much more ridiculous than her other dreams. 

Yennefer took her back to the apartment, where Milva greeted Ciri with a small cake to celebrate. Her smile vanished the moment she saw Ciri’s reddened eyes and Yennefer’s scowl. “I’ll be downstairs.”

“No, please, stay,” Ciri managed, taking the plate. “Thank you, Milva. Some cake might be—what I need right now.” 

Milva swallowed, nodding. She took Ciri’s free hand and pressed it to her belly. “Feel them kicking?” 

Ciri’s eyes widened. “I—yeah.” 

“Have you found out what it is yet?” Yennefer inquired.

Milva shook her head. “I don’t want to know. Ciri, Geralt and Jaskier, Regis too, helped me put together a crib yesterday. If you want to see it after the cake, we can do that.” 

Milva clearly understood that what Ciri needed was distraction. Yennefer gestured to Ciri as Milva cut the cake, whispering something about planning a baby shower. 

When Geralt and Jaskier finally arrived, Yennefer folded her arms and glared at them both. “Did he bail your ass out of jail?”

Geralt winced. A bruise swelled blue on his chin. “I didn’t get arrested. Told him if he pressed charges, I’d press them for stalking.” 

“Well then, you’re bloody lucky,” Yennefer said bitterly. Milva cringed, glancing to Ciri.

“Hmph.” Geralt strode by her, washing his hands. “Cake looks good, Milva.”

“Errant children don’t get cake,” Yennefer said.

“She’s right,” Milva confirmed. Ciri almost choked on her water. Milva was taking a side? Against Geralt?

Geralt spun to face them. “What?” 

“Think about something other than your own ego,” Yennefer said tightly. “You getting arrested, risking another scandal, is the last thing Ciri needs. Not because of sponsors or because of business or any of that shit, but because she wants this. Can’t you tell how badly she wants to get to the Olympics, stand at the top of that podium? She doesn’t need a distraction like—”

“I was doing that for her!” Geralt snapped, as if Ciri wasn’t right there. “You have any idea how being harassed by that manipulative, dirt-digging creep is—”

“She doesn’t need you to fight him! She needs you to support _ her!”  _

Ciri clasped her hands over her face.  _ Shut up, shut up!  _

Ihuarraquax appeared on the staircase, lazily flicking his tail back and forth. And all of a sudden he morphed, and Ciri was—somewhere else, alone—and Ihuarraquax was a horse.

Not a horse. A unicorn. A speaking unicorn.

_ Someone’s poisoning my food with mushrooms. They have to be. _

_ You are the lady of space and time.  _

What? Ciri didn’t understand. Wind whipped through her hair. She was riding Ihuarraquax, somewhere, looking, looking— _ Yennefer! Geralt!  _

_ “Do you think I’ll be able to meet them again someday?” Ciri asked. “Their stories are alive. But I want their presence.” _

_ The girl with mahogany hair and a hideously scarred face, but gentle eyes, peered at Ciri. “You’re the lady of space and time. You could make it happen.” _

_ “How, Morgana?” Ciri asked. “How?”  _

“Ciri!” 

She gasped, air sputtering in her windpipe. She cringed. Yennefer and Geralt were both supporting her. She was on her knees, Milva and Jaskier hovering above.

“You fainted,” Milva told her.

_ I did? _

That explained the dream. At least it wasn’t a hallucination. “I didn’t have much water today,” Ciri said. 

“I’ll see if you can see Regis tomorrow,” Geralt said.

“I’ll lie down.” Ciri still felt as if air itself was a knife, scraping her throat when she swallowed. It hurt. 

Yennefer helped her to her room. The cat lay on her pillow, displeased when she plucked him off to lie down herself. 

She dozed. Her sleep was dreamless, but when she woke at midnight, the crack under her door was dark and she couldn’t fall back to sleep.

What would she even tell Regis?  _ I had a vision or dream? I should probably get tested for psychosis?  _

She listened from where she lay, hoping her ears might hear something soothing, like Yennefer puttering around, Geralt’s rumbly laugh, anything. 

Cold silence. 

_ I don’t want to be alone. _

_ “You’re not alone,” _ Mistle told her, planting a kiss on Ciri’s temple, and in Mistle’s arms Ciri surely didn’t feel alone, so she stayed, snuggled closer. 

_ Who else would want me? _ It wasn’t as if Mistle really wanted to hurt her, after all.

Memories shivered down her limbs. 

Who the hell could she talk to?  _ Vysogota, I think I’m going insane? I’m finally winning again, and I’m insane? I am happy for Yen and Geralt, and I’m still going insane?  _ Ciri clutched her temples, bowing her head forward. 

She was more afraid that she didn’t think she was going insane. Who the hell was Morgana? Like, the Arthurian legend? And how did Bonhart know about  _ lion cub of Cintra?  _

_ Don’t ask for your victory,  _ Yennefer had said.  _ Take it.  _

She reached down, grasping her phone. A quick text to Milva:  _ you up? _

Nothing. Likely, Milva was getting some much-needed pregnancy rest. Ciri wished she didn’t feel like throwing her head back and wailing like an infant. 

Ihuarraquax rubbed his head against her side. Ciri patted his back, fur floating up to her nostrils. She coughed. 

An idea came to her. She got to her feet, marching out to the living room. Geralt’s phone still lay on the counter. She tapped in his passcode—Yennefer’s birthday—and scrolled through his contacts until she found the number she wanted.

_ It’s Ciri. If you’re still having those dreams, meet me at the rink at 3am, _ she said. 

She pressed send and returned to her room, trying to doze until her alarm went off at 2:30. Ciri hauled herself out of bed and drove to the rink. She checked her phone. Three minutes until three. 

Ciri tapped a rhythm onto the side of her thigh, waiting as her teeth chattered. The rink wouldn’t be any warmer inside, but at least there she was comfortable, in control. 

Was she? Or was she, as Yennefer said, begging approval?

“Ciri.”

She turned.

“My car broke down,” he said. “I walked here.” 

_ You actually came. _ Ciri stared at him. “So are you still having those dreams?” She didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. 

“I—” Cahir swallowed. “Sometimes.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets.

Ciri tilted her head, gesturing for him to follow her inside the rink. She headed towards the rental area. 

“Uh—”

“You’re skating,” Ciri said. “It’s the only way we get to talk. Or else you can walk right back home.” 

Cahir looked terrified at the sight of the ice skates. 

“What size?” Ciri asked. “A two?” 

He scowled, unamused by her teasing. “A ten.”

Ciri handed him the skates, gesturing for him to sit down on a bench. “What does ‘lion cub of Cintra’ mean?”

Cahir stared at the boots as if they were a confusing puzzle he didn’t know how to solve. He tugged one on, trying in vain to lace it up. “I do not know.”

“Bonhart said it,” Ciri said. “And I’ve dreamed it. I know it sounds stupid, what with my name, but I—”

“Cintra,” Cahir said slowly. “Is a place. In my dreams.  _ Go to Cintra. Find the princess _ . Those are orders from Emhyr, in my dreams.” His eyes, blue, met hers as his fingers finally successfully threaded the laces through the boots. 

Ciri’s eyes stung.  _ I’m not insane. _

_ Or, if I am, I’m not alone.  _ She got to her feet, wobbling towards the entrance. She gestured for him to follow. 

“Ciri, I don’t know how to skate.” 

“I know. You’ll learn.”

“No, I’ll break a bone.”

“That’s part of learning.” She tossed a smirk over her shoulder, stepping onto the ice.  _ I’m more comfortable here.  _ She held her hand out.

“I fight Bonhart,” said Cahir. “In my dreams. And then there’s a lot of pain, and I—don’t know what comes next.” 

“Fight him?” Ciri gaped.

“With a sword.”

“Masculine.”

He wrinkled his nose, easing himself onto the ice. “Thank you?”

“It wasn’t a compliment.” Ciri tugged at her hair. “Or an insult. Tell me more about your dreams. All of them. I know others are having them, too, but they’re less frequent, or at least, less upsetting. Geralt, Yennefer, Angoulême, even Milva.” 

“I—” Cahir cleared his throat. “I’m searching for—someone. You.” He clung to the side of the rink, pulling himself along with his arms. “But it’s not always a good thing. Sometimes Emhyr has asked me to capture you; sometimes I’m with Geralt. You spared my life once. You stabbed me in the hand, defeated me in combat.” 

Ciri’s eyes widened. A laugh emerged.

“And sometimes I’m in a cell, awaiting execution,” Cahir continued. “By Emhyr. And sometimes my mother is telling me to hate, to always hate. And sometimes I’m in a coffin, and sometimes—I dream within my dreams. About you.”

“If I weren’t having these dreams too, I would flee for my life,” Ciri said. 

“You have a fiery red rose tattoo in my dreams, on your—leg,” Cahir continued.

_ What? _ Ciri stiffened. “You mean on my groin?” 

He turned red. 

“I have that tattoo,” Ciri told him. “In this life. But it’s easily covered with tape for my free skate.” 

“You’re confident,” said Cahir. “In the dreams. And you’re provocative, vivacious—”

“Stop.” She held up her hands. “I dreamed about Mistle. You know, the girl I was dating. Except we’re somewhere else. Bonhart kills her, with a sword. He cuts her head off—he cuts off the heads of everyone Mistle shares her rat-infested apartment with. He makes me fight in an arena, like a gladiator. He strips me and chains a collar around my neck, like I’m a dog.” 

Cahir clenched his hands around the rail. He didn’t seem to know what to say to that.

“It’s why my short program costume has a halter neck,” Ciri said. “As a big fuck you to Bonhart. Dream Bonhart.”

“Do we think they are dreams?” Cahir whispered.

Ciri’s breath caught in her throat. She released it, watching the air frost white. “No.” She was scared to say it. But she had to. “I think they’re—real. Reincarnation, or—or something. My latest dream—someone called me the lady of space and time. I kept saying I wanted to see someone again—more than one someone. I wanted a chance.” She kept doing crossovers, slow as a newbie skater. Cahir still hadn’t let go of the wall. 

“I think so, too,” Cahir said. 

It felt freeing. Ciri laughed. “I’m glad.” 

“Well,” said Cahir. “You should know. Did you—dream about me?”

“Vaguely. Fire,” said Ciri. “Nothing else.” 

Cahir closed his eyes. 

She skated closer. “What?”

“After the fire in my dreams, I take you to a group of refugees. You’re covered in shit and smoke and blood, and I try to give you a bath, but I can’t talk to you because—I don’t know, I’m in shock—and you’re too terrified to say anything, and then we both fall asleep, and you’re gone when I wake up. Both of us have nightmares about that. It probably wasn’t a good idea, scared you in a way I never meant to—”

Ciri rubbed her temples. “Probably good I haven’t remembered that yet.” 

“How’s your neighbor, by the way?” Cahir asked, changing the subject. “The girl who was—” His cheeks turned pink.

“Milva’s doing well. The baby’s due in two months.” Ciri grinned. “Right before the Olympics, and I’m excited for both.” 

“She kept it?”

“It was her choice.”

“Good.” Cahir nodded. “My mother once tried to persuade one of my sisters to—keep it, but she didn’t want to. There was fighting. My father finally took my sister to get a termination. She was sixteen. It wasn’t fair of my mother to pressure her.” 

“How many siblings do you have?” Ciri inquired, stroking backwards on the ice. 

Cahir clung to the wall. “Um—I’m one of six? Two brothers, three sisters. One of my brothers died when I was younger, though. Car accident.” 

“I’m sorry,” Ciri said.

“It’s okay. I imagine you know what it’s like to lose family.” 

Ciri shrugged. “Yes.” She performed a choctaw and then gathered speed, lowering herself down to hydroblade. Her fingers brushed the ice. Since practicing hydroblading last year, she had to incorporate it into her free program then and now. 

“Now you’re just showing off,” Cahir called.

“I am!” she affirmed as she pried herself out of the hydroblade. “And you haven’t fallen on your ass yet, much less broken a bone.”

“Well—”

Ciri reached for his wrists. “Just hold on. Close your eyes if you need to, or keep them open, but don’t fight me.”

His eyes were wide. “What are you—”

Ciri grasped his hands, tugging him with her as she skated backwards with enough speed to go into a triple axel, if she wanted to. Instead, she whirled through the ice. Cahir cringed, leaning back.

“Don’t fight me,” Ciri said. “Or you’ll fall. Trust me, okay?” Her blades shushed across the ice, faster and faster. She pulled him in a circle before slowing gradually, sliding towards the edge of the rink. “You survived.” 

Cahir clutched the wall, still looking woozy. He shook his head.

“What, am I talking to your ghost?”

Cahir winced. “Honestly, you might be.” 

It took Ciri a moment to realize what he meant, and she laughed.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look if Lancelot can show up at the end of Lady of the Lake I'm going to presume Morgana is there too. :P


	4. Kiss and Cry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;)

“Heard you fainted,” Regis said.

Ciri sat on the blue faux leather chair in his brightly lit office. A crimson curtain dangled over the window, filtering the sunlight into blood. “Sort of.” 

“Oh?” Regis frowned, leaning his cheek against his knuckles, resting his elbow on the desk in front of him. “How’s the foot?”

“No pain,” Ciri said honestly, kicking her leg out. “Except for like, the usual blisters and scrapes.”

“To be expected. But back to the fainting, Miss Cintra.”

Ciri scowled. “I think it’s more—because of stress.”

Regis arched his brows, reaching for his cup of mint tea. He sipped. “Stress? Well, you have been under a lot of it lately. Congratulations on winning Zagreb.”

“Thanks.”

“Is Vysogota—”

“It’s not all because of what’s been going on,” Ciri cut in. “Or maybe it is. I don’t know.” Her heart thumped inside her chest, louder and louder. Cahir didn’t think she was insane, but was Cahir insane? He’d promised to text her all the dreams he had from then all, and vice versa. He also offered to look into Bonhart and what that bastard might be scheming, but she’d told him not to.

_ “Not worth it.”  _

“I’ve been having dreams.” She dared to say it. Her eyes met Regis’s. “I know it sounds crazy. But I’ve been dreaming, and other people have been having similar dreams, and they all match, or a lot of them do. And I don’t know if it’s some kind of shared delusion, but—” She swallowed, clenching and unclenching her fists. “Am I reincarnated or something? Do I have schizophrenia? Am I psychotic for wondering?”

Regis’s eyes widened. He turned away from her.

_ Shit.  _ Tears burned in Ciri’s eyes. “Just when everything is starting to go well, I lose my mind, right?” 

_ All I do is bring death. _

“No,” Regis said quietly. “No, I don’t think you’re losing your mind, Ciri. Even a psychotic mind is still your mind.”

“But my dreams won’t let me stay rooted in reality.”

Regis swiveled his chair back around to face her, rolling himself closer to her. He reached out and took her hands. “I’m not sure you’re supposed to.”

Ciri blinked. “What?” She searched the lines crisscrossing his face, the deep eyes that had always been sincere, that she had never doubted wanted the best for her. And now she was afraid to hope, afraid to trust him.

“I’ve had them too,” Regis said, releasing her hands. “Dreams about teaming up with Geralt of Rivia, searching for a young girl named Ciri. Of course, at first I thought they were my brain figuring out how to cope with the past few months. But then—but then, I dreamed other things, and the marks they burned into me—they’re real, or they were, somewhere and some-when. But I don’t know where or when.”

“What?” Ciri eked out. 

“I dreamed that I was buried,” said Regis. “I dreamed that I was a vampire, lusting after blood the same way you well know I struggled with alcoholism in this life. And I dreamed about redemption, and I wasn’t quite sure if I found it, or how I did. I just know that I wanted to help people heal. In all ways.” He cast her a small smile. “I have a dream about healing Jaskier of a wound to his temple.” 

Ciri snorted. “Like when he fell down the stairs?” When she was thirteen, she met Regis after Jaskier fell down their stairs and they had to rush him to a nearby clinic. He was fine, just a bit of a drama queen, but Regis’s warmth and history of sports medicine—even if he had lost his license a decade earlier for abusing alcohol on the job, and when he sobered up and regained his license, chose to focus on working at underpaid clinics—meant that Ciri went to him a few weeks later when she had a minor sprain. And he’d been her doctor ever since. 

“Yes, like that, except far less accidental.” Regis smirked. 

Ciri smiled. 

“I never see you in those dreams,” Regis continued. “I see others, but we are looking for you.”

“Well, you found me in this world, if they’re memories of another one,” Ciri said. Her chest felt lighter, as if weights of sludge had been purged from inside her ribs. 

Regis smiled. “Yes, I did.” 

“They call me the  _ lion cub of Cintra _ ,” Ciri said. “And  _ lady of space and time. _ And I dreamed once that I was making a deal to see—someone again. I’m not sure whom, but I think Yennefer and Geralt. Or maybe everyone.” 

“When you need to remember,” said Regis, adjusting the stethoscope around his neck. “You will. Trust your past self, Ciri. If she had half the brains and compassion you have, she would have made a wise choice, no matter her trauma. She had a plan. Even if you don’t recall it yet.”

Ciri thought of Bonhart.  _ Past self, did you underestimate him? _ Why was he even back? She surely couldn’t have missed him! “Thanks.” 

“Good luck at nationals,” said Regis. “I’ll be rooting for you.” 

When she left the clinic, she texted Cahir what Regis had said.

_ He shows up in my dreams too,  _ Cahir replied.  _ He’s a vampire. _

_ He mentioned that. _

_ I just wish that last puzzle piece would fall into place. I want to remember what happened with Morgana. _

Yennefer and Geralt seemed to have recovered from their tiff, and Geralt apologized for having risked Ciri’s reputation like that. Ciri assured him it was fine. 

Cahir said that he was investigating Bonhart and Emhyr behind the scenes, which irritated Ciri because she did not want anything else to provoke that snake. Milva started having practice contractions that she called Braxton Hicks. They did not seem fun. 

Within a few weeks, Ciri packed up for nationals. The first night there, Yennefer took her out for dinner with Tissaia de Vries, her old ice dancing coach and the designer of Ciri’s costumes. Ciri profusely thanked her for the gorgeous outfits.

“Oh, they’re nothing,” Tissaia said, waving her hand. “Glad you liked them.” She was an intimidating woman, strong jawline and raven-dark hair, eyes that flashed like candles. Ciri could suddenly see where Yennefer got many of her qualities from. When Yennefer left to use the bathroom, Ciri decided to say as much. 

“Hmph,” said Tissaia. “Yennefer’s not imitating me. If anything, we weren’t able to work together forever because she was so much like me. I gravitated towards that, and she pulled away.”

“Why?” asked Ciri.

Tissaia gave her a small smile. “Someday you’ll understand, Cirilla. Sometimes people who hate themselves cover it up with makeup and perfumes, and sometimes they shove everyone’s face through the surface and force them to see.”

_ Are you saying… Yennefer? Doesn’t like herself? Why? _ Ciri couldn’t imagine that to be the case. Yennefer was confident, strong, brave—everything Ciri wanted to be!

“She and Geralt are so alike in that, too,” mused Tissaia, tracing her fingertip across the lip of her wine glass. “She gravitates towards him, towards her reflection and inverse. She boasts the emotions he pretends he does not have. He exudes the restraint she’s afraid to employ, afraid to deceive with. The two of them feel as if they complete each other, but they only do when they both let their internal chaos explode. Which, I don’t think they’ve quite done, not just yet.”

Ciri’s mind spun. Geralt hated himself, too? Why? He was her father! More a father to her than anyone, since her own had died when she was so young! She loved him, she told him that every day! Why couldn’t he see it? 

_ Because…  _

_ You see me as different than you. _

_ You see me as an innocent child? Even after all these scandals? Stop lying to yourself! _

_ Or you see me as something worth protecting?  _

_ You don’t have to be perfect and innocent to be my father!  _

Yennefer came back to the table, and Tissaia changed the subject. For the rest of dinner, Ciri felt as if her mind was floating far away. She stole out her phone and texted Cahir. _ Did you meet Yennefer in your dreams? _

_ No. _

Dammit. 

_ But Geralt spoke of her,  _ said Cahir.  _ Once he realized she had betrayed them or thought she had, and blamed me instead, and we got in a fistfight until Milva broke us apart. _

_ Milva? _ Ciri bit back a grin.

_ And Geralt started rebounding with Fringilla at one point, and he was obviously just trying to replace the Yennefer-shaped hole in his heart. It was nauseating and it didn’t work.  _

Ciri choked on her water. 

“What’re you grinning at?” Yennefer teased.

“Nothing.” Ciri turned her phone over, pressing it down against her lap. 

“Uh-huh.” Yennefer wasn’t buying it, but she didn’t press.

The short program came, this time with no step-out on the triple axel. 

_ See?  _ Ciri thought.  _ Ha _ . 

Sexy, sexy, she had to act sexy. Not like Yennefer. Did Yennefer hate herself so much that she didn’t even like seeing herself in Ciri? Ciri gritted her teeth.

Hot breath blew cold across her cheek, a memory frozen over. She let herself wander back there, chest tight, butterflies flapping in her stomach. No, not butterflies. Dragons, clawing and scratching and burning. Her stomach churned. 

_ I might as well, _ Ciri had thought to herself after Mistle kissed her the next morning when Ciri emerged from the shower, a shower she had almost scalded her skin off during, wanting to go back, rewind, make it better.  _ It did feel good.  _

_ Is this the kind of sexy you like? Can I do that to you, too?  _

A lump formed in Ciri’s throat. She finished her spins, ending in her pose. She had won the short, she knew it even before the score came up, but Yennefer was  _ not _ happy. 

“What was that?” Yennefer asked her.

“You told me to be sexy how I wanted to be,” Ciri retorted, shoving her skate guards off. “That’s how I know how to be sexy.”

“Yeah, and how did you learn that?” 

Ciri lifted her shoulders in a wordless shrug. 

“You looked as if you were rushing,” Yennefer said. “Anxious, scared, like you really wanted to have someone tell you it was okay. You looked imprisoned out there.” 

_ Imprisoned? _ “Look, Yennefer,” Ciri said through gritted teeth. “I’m not you. Maybe that is what sexy means to me.”

“I doubt it.”

“You can be free even if I choose not to be!” 

Yennefer’s jaw dropped. 

The cameras focused on them as she sat at the kiss and cry, and both she and Yennefer plastered fake smiles on their faces. 

82.62. Not bad. 

Neither of them spoke for the rest of the night. The next morning, Yennefer coached her like normal. She took extra care to assure Ciri that  _ everything will be okay  _ and  _ you can do this  _ before her program. 

She did not fall, but she did two-foot the last lutz in her program. 

_ Am I who you want me to be, Geralt? _

_ Are you proud of me? _

_ Who are you, Geralt?  _

“You don’t even have to say it,” Ciri said when she reached the edge of the rink after her skate. “I know, Yennefer. I wasn’t skating for myself.”

“You were trying very hard to do your best,” Yennefer said evenly. She was trying. Maybe Tissaia had spoken to her, or Geralt. 

A small smile broke over Ciri’s face. “That’s not a compliment, from you.”

Yennefer chortled, slinging her arm around Ciri’s shoulders. “No, kid. It’s not. But that’s okay.” 

After her win, it was time for photos and interviews with the other two skaters who would be accompanying her to the Olympics, courtesy of the three spots Ciri had earned by winning the World Championships last year: silver medalist Renfri, who had been a Grand Prix final alternate this year, and Adda Foltest, who was only in her first year as a senior, had only had one instead of the normal two Grand Prix assignments, and seemed overwhelmed by the attention when an unexpected girl suddenly shot to acclaim. 

And then it was time to rush back home and beat the brewing winter storm supposed to bear down tomorrow. Angoulême, Milva, Jaskier, Triss, and even Regis and Vysogota greeted her with another cake. No Bonhart this time, and Ciri laughed. 

She watched the way Geralt’s eyes followed Yennefer.  _ You really love her. _

_ And she loves you. _

_ Is that not enough?  _

Was this part of why she had made some deal with Morgana last time?  _ Please don’t be too late.  _

“Does it feel real yet?” Milva asked her, stomach protruding prominently now. She shifted, wincing as if she felt uncomfortable. Angoulême stood behind Milva, massaging her shoulders. “Okay, what do I owe you for this, Angoulême?”

“Can’t I just want to help you, Aunty?”

“I’m two years older than you!” 

“I know, Aunty.”

Milva flicked cake crumbs at Angoulême, who laughed. 

Ciri snortd. “Honestly, no.” She pulled her knee to her chest.  _ I’m going to the Olympics.  _ The words sounded frail, a snowflake that would melt away if she grasped them, if she believed them. “There’s still a lot that could go wrong before then.”

“Oh, please,” complained Angoulême. “You’re not allowed to think like that, Ciri. There is no way I am missing a trip to America.”

“What?” Ciri’s eyes widened. “You?” She didn’t think that— 

“Most are going,” Milva confirmed. “But it was supposed to be a secret, Angoulême.” 

“Oops.” Angoulême clapped her hand over her mouth.

“I can’t fly, obviously,” Milva said. “Baby will be due around then. And Regis and Vysogota still have patients. But Jaskier, Geralt, Angoulême, and Triss will be going to cheer you on.” She smiled. “Well, I’ll cheer you on, too, but from my couch.” 

Ciri’s eyes filled. She hugged both Milva and Angoulême.

Of course, Nilfgaardian Enterprises was also based in America. Ciri cringed at the thought of being closer to Emhyr. She’d never actually met the snake in person. 

Ciri pulled out her phone. A single text.

_ Congratulations.  _

_ How likely is it that Emhyr will try to poison me while I’m in America?  _ she texted Cahir.

_ He doesn’t want you hurt, from what I can tell. He just inexplicably really, really wants you to work for him. _

_ So that’s a high chance he’ll harass me? _

_ It’s a big country. His headquarters are on the other coast. From what I can see, he hasn’t booked any flights to the city you’ll be in, but there’s no guarantee. He sometimes travels under a fake name. _

_ I’m disturbed you know this. _

_ I still have my detective skills.  _

_ Creep.  _

_ Why thank you.  _

“Who’re you texting?” Angoulême crooned. “A boy?”

“Not like that, Angoulême.”

“Oh, so it  _ is _ a boy?” She wiggled her eyebrows.

“Don’t end up like me,” Milva said sadly.

Ciri scowled. “I’d love to end up like you, Milva. A kind, brave, strong person.” 

Milva flushed. 

When the party was over, Ciri texted Cahir as Ihuarraquax ignored her for daring to leave him.  _ Meet at the rink? Is your car fixed? _

_ Yes and no. _

Ciri bit her lip. _ If you need money to fix it, I have that _ . Jaskier told her two new companies wanted her for commercials to air during the Olympics, a fast food one and car company. A makeup maker wanted to use her face for print ads and supply her with free makeup for her performances. 

_ I’ll be at the rink in a half hour,  _ he texted, dodging that question. Good. She shouldn’t have asked. 

Ciri pried herself up from her bed, heading to the rink. It was supposed to start snowing around three or four. The air had a cold bite to it, damp, waiting. 

She found Cahir already waiting when she pulled up. 

“Walked fast,” Cahir explained. “It’s cold.” 

Ciri nodded, shutting her car door. She pulled out her keys, letting them into the rink. 

“You did well,” Cahir said. “I was watching.” He followed her inside.

“Yeah, well, not according to Yennefer,” Ciri grumbled. She flicked on the lights. 

Cahir’s mouth fell open. “What?”

“I mean, she says I do it well, but she says I’m trying to imitate something or appeal to someone else. She wants me to appeal only to myself.” Ciri scowled. She handed him the rental boots again. His face turned green. “Wasn’t it fun last time?” 

“Er… Okay…”

“I was thinking of my ex girlfriend,” Ciri said, fiddling with her own boots. Why was she talking to him about this? She should go back to discussing Emhyr and Nilfgaard. “Mistle. Remembering what she liked.” Her voice caught.

“Do you miss her?” Cahir asked.

“Yes,” said Ciri, closing her eyes. “But maybe I shouldn’t. It’s all mixed up, all muxed ip, Cahir. You know, the more I think about it—” She paused. “I think she raped me. I don’t think she meant to. She was drunk. I don’t know, really.” Her face burned, and Milva’s lovely cake felt as if it were congealing into slime inside her stomach. “Forget I said that.”

“Um, no.” Cahir’s face was white. “You—”

“Forget it,” Ciri bit each word. “I don’t—hate her, or blame her, and maybe I wanted it, I thought I did—well, no, not until after, but I thought it wasn’t so bad after, so that means there was a part of me okay with it, right?” 

“Not necessarily.” 

“Shut up.” Ciri’s shoulders slumped. She dropped onto the bench, hanging her head between her knees. “At least I wasn’t alone. That’s what I kept telling myself. At least I wasn’t alone, even if. Even if.” She peered up at him. “Anyways. Can we please change the subject?”

Cahir shoved his feet into the boots. He was silent. Great. 

Then, he spoke. Finally. “Emhyr might be up to something. I have no evidence, but—” 

“But?” Ciri prompted, getting to her feet. She held out her hands, grasping his and pulling him up as well. 

“But, in my dreams,” said Cahir. “Of—that place. He imprisoned me for over a year after you were—after you escaped. And then he freed me to capture you again, and that’s why you cut my hand when I tried again, and then—I still—he still wanted you. That’s when I went to Geralt, I think.” 

“Is he a creep?” Ciri wondered. 

“I honestly have no idea. But there is something weird about him. His history isn’t really well known, which is odd for the CEO of a company that big.” Cahir wobbled on the ice. He grasped the rink. “I know that—in my dreams, he wanted to marry you.”

Ciri stiffened. “So he  _ is _ a creep. He’s old enough to be my dad!” 

Cahir swallowed. “In my dreams…” He stopped.

Ciri stuck her toe pick into the ice, halting. “What?” 

Cahir shook his head. “Maybe now’s not the time.”

“Tell me!” Her heart pounded.  _ Did I marry him?  _ Did that mean she was fated to—no, no, she didn’t want to! 

“He wanted to marry you,” Cahir whispered. “And in my dreams, I told Geralt this, that I was considering taking you back to him anyways—because I wanted to see you again.”

Ciri gestured to herself. “Well, you succeeded.”

Cahir laughed. Still, he avoided her eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” Ciri pressed. 

Cahir gulped. “I—was willing to have you marry Emhyr just to see you. Without a thought for your wellbeing, but—in the end, I wouldn’t have, I don’t think—my dreams about my death are not clear, so—I just wanted you to be safe.” 

Ciri scowled. “So, are you planning on marrying me to Emhyr now?”

“No!”

“Then we’re fine.” Ciri skated backwards, hair flying around her head. She slid her gaze back towards him. His eyes were blue enough for her to make out the color from meters away.  _ You regret it, don’t you? _

_ I came all this way to redeem myself, _ said Cahir’s voice. But he hadn’t said that—now. 

_ You did.  _

“I’m still sorry,” Cahir said.

She turned away. “I just wish someone wanted me for myself.” 

_ Mistle, did you just not want to be alone, either?  _

A thud and a grunt. Ciri whirled around. Cahir had let go of the rail and fallen onto his ass. Wincing, he tried to get up, only to splat onto his front. 

“Careful,” Ciri said, skating over. She crouched, grasping his forearms and pulling him to his feet. “Everything okay? No broken bones?”

He shook his head. “Broken pride.”

“Ah, well, that’s better left broken.” Ciri’s eyes bulged. “Cahir!”

“What?” He glanced down and swore. Blood trickled red from where the blade had sliced his calf. 

“Get off the ice,” Ciri said. “Actually.” She grasped his arm, hauling him off. Unfortunately, a crimson trail lingered. The rink likely wouldn’t be open in the morning with the approaching storm, but she was going to have to text Angoulême anyways. She pushed him onto the bench, yanking his jeans up over his calf. The gash was surprisingly long. Ciri cursed. 

“It’s nothing,” Cahir said as Ciri hurried towards the locker room. 

“You might need stitches.”

“Are you serious?” Cahir glanced at the wound. His face twisted. “Shit.” 

Ciri found a towel in the locker room, handing it to him. “I’ll call Regis and see if he’s awake.” Ciri gestured. “Get your boots off. I’m driving you.” 

“I am an adult, Ciri. I can handle myself.”

“You can’t even get your car fixed.” And she was the one who made him skate. Ciri cursed again when Regis didn’t answer. 

“It’s really fine,” Cahir tried again. 

“Well, I know we have some butterfly bandages at my place,” Ciri said, biting her lip. She tasted bitter blood and cringed. “Come on.”

She helped Cahir out into the parking lot, where the first flakes were whirling down. “Buckle your seatbelt,” she ordered as she twisted the keys in the ignition. 

“Yes ma’am.” The terrycloth towel was stained through. Guilt chafed at Ciri. “I’m not going to die, Ciri.”

She let out her breath. He was right, probably. But it still wasn’t good. _ I’ve lost too much. _

_ And I’m angry. I’m angry I’ve lost so much.  _

_ It’s not fair! If that’s childish, so what? It’s not fair!  _

She parked, helping him out of the car and towards her door. Ciri gestured for Cahir to stay on the stairs while she went up and found the bandages. Yennefer’s purse was still there, and Jaskier was asleep on the couch. She smirked. 

The bandages were in the cabinet behind the bathroom mirror. Ciri grasped the box and tiptoed back towards the door. Roach and Ihuarraquax were snuggling, Roach looking sleep and Ihuarraquax looking exasperated as if to say, “see what I have to make do with when you’re not here?” 

Ciri slipped back down the stairs, where she heard hurried whispers. She froze.

Cahir sat on the floor, leg out in front of him and wrapped in a clean towel. Angoulême stood above him. She craned her neck, looking up at Ciri. “Oh, hello. I was just catching up with Mr. Text Message Receiver.” 

Ciri rolled her eyes. “I got the bandages. I didn’t try to kill him.”

“Yeah, well, cut smut, we have bigger problems.” Angoulême grasped Ciri’s shoulder. “I stayed over with Milva because I had wine. See, I can be responsible. But she’s in pain, and I think she might be in labor, but she—” 

_ What? _ Ciri gaped. “It’s too early. It’s probably false labor.”

“Yeah, well, the contractions are regular and now four minutes apart, which seems rather serious to me,” said Angoulême. “She said she’s been crampy since this morning, but she didn’t want to miss your party, and since it’s early—” 

Ciri tossed the bandage box to Cahir, who caught it. “Take care of this?”

He nodded.

“I’ll babysit,” called Angoulême. 

Ciri ducked inside. A blanket and pillow were abandoned on the couch. She passed the crib, pushing the door to the bedroom open. Milva lay on her side,twisting to bury her face in her pillow. Her shoulders hunched and her legs drew up as if in an attempt to shield herself from pain that was already coming from inside of her. 

_ Well, hell. _ “Milva?” Ciri asked, crouching next to her head.

Milva cracked her eyes open. “Ciri? Did Angoulême get you? I told her not to disturb—you need your rest—”

“The hell I do. I was already up. It’s a long story.” Ciri glanced at her. “Angoulême said you were having contractions every four minutes.”

Milva nodded, breaths uneven. “One—just ended. It can’t be, Ciri—I can’t lose the baby, not when I’ve come this far, not when—” Her hand reached out, grasping Ciri’s. It was shaking.

Ciri squeezed. “You won’t, Milva. Babies are born early all the time nowadays. You’re at thirty weeks, that’s good enough, isn’t it?” 

“They are not done cooking,” Milva snapped.

_ Okay.  _ Ciri dialed Regis again. And again. And again. 

Fuck it. “Okay,” Ciri said, grasping Milva’s shoulder and hauling her up. “We’re going to the hospital. You and me and Angoulême. And Cahir.” If she left him in the stairway, Geralt might kill him come morning. 

“Ca—what?” Milva demanded. 

“Quick,” Ciri said. “Before the snow gets worse and before your contractions come back!” 

Milva sucked in her breath. Her lips trembled. “Okay.” 

“It’s going to be okay,” Ciri promised. “It really will be, Milva.” Her own eyes burned.  _ It has to be.  _

_ Please. _

“We’re going to the hospital,” Ciri announced to Cahir and Angoulême, who had put the butterfly stitches on his wound and one on his hair because why not. “Stay here and face Geralt or come with us, Cahir. You can get stitches if you need them.”

Angoulême helped Cahir and Ciri, Milva. Angoulême and Milva too the backseat, Angoulême holding Milva’s hand and rubbing her back. The snow fell in determined pellets, slapping her windshield. She turned on her defroster. 

Ciri gripped the steering wheel, drawing in her breath like she did before a competition.  _ I can do this.  _ “Angoulême—” 

A barely-muffled howl ripped from Milva’s throat. Her face contorted in pain. 

“Shit!” Ciri felt terror slice through her. Cahir’s face was white. Angoulême was trying to soothe Milva, but she wasn’t even calling Milva  _ Aunty _ , which meant something was wrong. “Cahir, you, then.” She tossed her phone at him. “Text Geralt; pretend you’re me. Tell him Angoulême and I are taking Milva to the hospital and she’s in labor. Actually, text Yennefer and Jaskier too. There should be a group chat on there.” 

He obeyed. Ciri focused on driving. The roads felt more than a little slick. Her heart pounded. Forget the Olympics, she had an even more important reason she couldn’t get into an accident right now!

_ I can do this. I have to do this. I  _ will _ do this. _

_ Lion cub of Cintra. _

Grandmother’s voice again, from another time. Ciri remembered her grandmother telling her about her birth. Her parents were never married, and Pavetta got pregnant in college. Much like Milva, except with more resources. 

Cahir began giving her directions. When she pulled up at the emergency room, the car finally skidded. Ciri yanked the wheel in the same direction of the spin. The car slowed.

“Holy shit!” Angoulême yelped. Milva just groaned, and then her groan increased in volume and pitch to an ear-splitting scream. 

Ciri turned the car off and scrambled through the snow into the blazing lights of the ER. “Hey! Hey! My friend’s in labor; she’s outside! And my other friend needs stitches, probably! That’s not related!” 

A doctor in light green scrubs gaped at her. Fortunately, an orderly hurried over, getting a wheelchair ready. It wasn’t necessary, because the door banged open behind Ciri. Wind and snow blew inside as Angoulême helped Milva in. Cahir limped behind. 

The orderlies pushed Milva into the chair. Angoulême tried telling them that she was early, thirty weeks only, giving them Milva’s full name— _ Maria Barring _ —and birthdate when Milva was in too much pain to talk. 

“Is he the father?” one of the doctors asked, nodding to Cahir.

“No!” exclaimed Cahir, Milva, and Ciri all at once. Angoulême doubled over laughing. 

“He’s another patient, just far less urgent!” Ciri snapped. “He cut his leg.”

“You’re Cirilla Cintra!” exclaimed the nurse manning the desk. “I love your—”

“I’ll sign any autographs you want after you make sure my friends are okay!” Ciri pleaded. She wrung her hands. 

Her phone rang. Ciri checked it. “Yennefer!” 

“Ihuarraquax woke us up meowing and pouncing,” Yennefer said. “We saw your message. Are you—”

“We’re at the hospital! Angoulême’s going with Milva for now; I’ll join in a bit.” Ciri glanced back at Cahir.

“We’re on our way.” Yennefer hung up. 

Cahir was gone, presumably taken into a room. Ciri gulped, clutching her thighs, trying to catch her breath.

_ Alone _ .

“Ciri!” 

She lifted her head, gaping. “You got my message?”

“Yes, but my phone kept dropping the call.” Regis hurried over to her. “Is she all right? Is—”

“It’s early,” Ciri eked out. “So will—” 

“Don’t worry, Ciri,” said Regis, hand squeezing her shoulder. “98% of babies born at thirty weeks will be fine. She or he will just have to stay in the hospital a little longer.” 

Ciri gulped back tears of relief. She nodded, pinching the bridge of her nose. 

Cahir limped out first. 

“Did you need stitches?” Ciri called. Regis narrowed his eyes, but didn’t seem overly alarmed. 

Cahir winced. “Twenty of them.”

“Yikes.” Ciri swallowed. “I think it takes a while, but Regis says that she’s far enough along so that the baby will be fine.” 

“A while?” Regis chuckled. “Ciri, it takes hours and hours for a first baby, usually. I’m no obstetrician, but I would count on being here for hours yet.” 

“Oh.” Ciri shook her head. Cahir suddenly gave a sharp intake of breath. She looked up.

Geralt, Yennefer, and Jaskier all marched in through the main entrance, snow coating their coats and hair. Geralt’s gaze immediately focused on Cahir.

“He helped!” Ciri interjected. Cahir arched his brows, as if to ask whether he really did. “Well. I sliced his leg. By accident. And then Milva went into labor. Those incidents aren’t connected. It’s a long story.” 

“Roads are terrible already,” Jaskeir said, wiping melting snow from his forehead. “Think we’re stuck here for at least half the day.”

Cahir sat next to Ciri. Yennefer rushed to the front desk, explaining that Milva had asked her to be her labor coach. Yennefer went up, Geralt sat across from Ciri, and Angoulême came back down, moaning about a needle as long as her arm that they had apparently stuck in Milva’s back. 

Ciri closed her eyes. She didn’t feel like explaining to Geralt that she was meeting Cahir at the rink to discuss how they were all actually reincarnations of some fantastical world. Plus, it was a hospital. What if a psychiatrist overheard? 

_ She stood in a strange passageway, looking into a pair of blue eyes she knew, albei never like this, the color of the sky when the sun came out after a storm, after the clouds had parted and blue bloomed through.  _

_ “Run,” Ciri whispered, seeing who was coming down the second passage. “It is the devil incarnate. But he wants me and will not chase you… Go. Help Geralt…” _

_ Cahir shook his head. “Ciri,” he said mildly. “I’m surprised at you. I cross the whole world to see you, and now that I found you, to redeem myself, to save you and defend you. And you want me to run away now?” _

_ “You don’t know who you are dealing with.” _

_ Cahir tugged on his gloves, removed his coat and wrapped it around his left arm. He waved his sword and swung it until it whistled in the air. “I would know.” _

_ At the sight of the trio, Bonhart stopped. But only for a moment. “Oh,” he said. “There was a rescue? Your friends, witcheress? All right. Two more or less, it does not make a difference.” _

Someone shook her. Ciri blinked, shifting. 

Blue, that same blue. 

_ I fell asleep?  _

_ On your shoulder?  _

Ciri jerked back. Angoulême sat next to Geralt, swinging her leg and smirking. Jaskier snored lightly from where he slumped in a chair. Regis shook him awake, too.

“Yennefer,” said Cahir.

Ciri rubbed sleep from her eyes. “Sorry,” she whispered to Cahir. Yennefer stood in front of them, eyes shining. Ciri checked the time. Holy shit, ten in the morning? She glanced towards the windows. The world outside was pure white.

“A boy,” said Yennefer. “Born at 9:38. 1.9 kilograms, so he’ll be in the NICU, but he was breathing decently.”

Ciri clasped her hands to her cheeks. Angoulême cheered. Jaskier laughed, and Regis smiled. Geralt looked as if he might collapse from exhaustion, sighing in relief.

“He’s beautiful,” Yennefer said to Geralt. “Tiny, but beautiful.” She covered her eyes. 

Geralt took her in his arms. A lump formed in Ciri’s throat. Angoulême came over to hug her. 

“It’ll probably be another hour or so before we can see her, and I’m not sure about the baby,” Yennefer was saying. 

“Where did Cahir go?” she asked. 

“To get coffee,” said Jaskier. “He asked me if I wanted any. Yen and Geralt too.”

“Oh.” Ciri turned to Angoulême. “You want some?”

“Black like my soul. Kidding, make sure it has extra cream and sugar, so that I might as well just be drinking melted coffee ice cream.” Angoulême winked.

Ciri rolled her eyes, turning and hurrying down the hallways, shoes squeaking against the tiled floors. The scent of antiseptic permeated the air, so strong Ciri felt as if she could choke. 

On one of the floors above, a new life was breathing, and Milva—Ciri wanted to embrace her friend. 

She spotted Cahir’s figure up ahead. “Wait up!” 

Cahir turned around, surprised to see her. He inclined his head as she jogged to catch up. The green sign ahead pointed to the cafeteria on their left. The scent of coffee and pastries tried to overpower the antiseptic. It lost. 

“Thanks for sitting with us,” Ciri said, sticking her hands into the pockets of her coat.

Cahir shrugged. “Wasn’t like I had much choice, with the storm and all.”

Oh, right. Ciri frowned. “Sorry about your leg.” A strange feeling crawled down her neck, like a spider. 

“It’s fine. I’ll even go skating again, if you want to.”

“Really?” Ciri’s eyes popped.

Cahir gave a small nod. 

_ You have nice eyes.  _ “Did Geralt say anything to you when I fell asleep on your shoulder? Sorry about that, by the way. And thanks for letting me sleep. I mean—”

“A little,” said Cahir, chuckling. “Mostly glared for a bit, but it’s fine, Ciri. I told him it was nothing, that I was giving you information on Emhyr. I didn’t make it seem like something it wasn’t—” 

“You loved me,” Ciri interrupted. 

Silence, except for the clattering of plates in the cafeteria. He just stared. 

“Back in that world,” Ciri said, walking closer. Her shoes squeaked again, the annoying things. “I saw you start to face Bonhart. From what you said before, I gather he killed you.” 

Cahir grimaced. The lights shone brightly, almost nauseatingly so thanks to the white wonderland whirling outside. 

“You wanted to redeem yourself,” Ciri said.  _ I know. I know what that meant.  _

_ I thought I was long gone in that world, too.  _

“The dreams, even back then—the girl with the fiery red rose tattoo—” Cahir stopped. “You looked free. I supposed I wanted that, wanted to be reminded it—could exist. Of course, if I’d handed you over to Emhyr, then your fire might have gone out.”

“Or burned him alive,” Ciri said.

Cahir smiled. “Or that.” 

“Angoulême wants coffee too.” Ciri gestured. Her stomach clenched, a strange feeling of disappointment tapping at it. 

“Ah.” Cahir fell into step next to her. 

Ah, shit. Cir stopped, grasping his arm. He turned back to her, and she closed her eyes. 

Her lips pressed into his.


	5. Serpentine Sequence

“I’m sorry, you what?” Angoulême’s eyes bulged. She leaned forward, grasping Ciri by her upper arms. “You what what  _ what?”  _

The hospital bathroom was not where Ciri wanted to have this conversation. Her face burned red. She just couldn’t keep it inside her. “I kissed him.”

“Did he like, kiss you back?” Angoulême tossed her ashen hair. Her eyebrows danced. 

“Stop.” Ciri shoved her friend. “I—yes.” He had hesitated at first, lips pliant against hers, and then he was kissing her back as if she might vanish into thin air right in front of him, as if he wanted to prove that she was really real, there, living and made of flesh and bone and not a mirage in a dream. “A nun walked by and mumbled something about being shameless.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

Angoulême cracked up, kicking her legs and slapping the counter. 

“It’s not  _ that _ funny.”

“It’s hilarious.” Angoulême wiped at her eyes, and then shrieked when Ciri scooped water from the running faucet and splashed it on her. 

They left the bathroom with half-drenched hair. Geralt looked as if he did not want to know. Yennefer laughed. 

“You can all go up now,” a nurse told them. Ciri walked next to Cahir, wondering. Should she grab his hand? Mistle had. But she and Mistle never really talked about their relationship. They just—were together. 

_ Here’s not the place, _ Ciri decided. But she smiled at him, and he looked relieved.  _ Did you think I’d regret it? _

Milva was sitting up in bed, exhausted but with color in her cheeks and a smile on her face. Ciri raced over, wrapping her arms around her. 

“He’s perfect,” Milva said. “I can’t—he can’t be with me right now, he has to be in the NICU for a few—weeks, they say, but he’s okay, if a little uncooked.” Her eyes filled. “I don’t know if it’s something I did, or—”

“No, Milva,” said Ciri. “It’s not your fault.” 

“It’s really not,” said Yennefer. “The important thing is that both of you are here, and you’ll be okay.” 

“Does he have a name yet?” asked Angoulême.

Milva shook her head. 

“Congratulations, Milva,” said Jaskier. 

One of the nurses came to help Milva to her feet, help Regis walk her towards the NICU to see the baby. Yennefer pushed Milva’s IV pole along with her. Ciri peered out at a brightly lit nursery, white and sterile compared to the colorful fish and flowers tiled on the floor below. A clash of the serious and the childlike. Ciri’s chest ached.  _ I’m sorry you have to start life like this, baby. _

A lump swelled in Ciri’s throat as she watched Milva press her fingertips to the glass, watching her tiny baby fight for his life through the glass. Tubes snaked out in all directions from his body. His chest rose and fell thanks to a ventilator. 

“I’m sorry,” Milva whispered. 

Geralt squeezed Milva’s shoulder. 

Ciri wondered. _ Mother, if you were here—  _

A hand on hers. Yennefer’s. Ciri leaned back against the woman. 

She missed her grandmother.  _ Lioness of Cintra.  _

The snow settled, and they were able to leave the hospital by early afternoon. Milva had to stay, of course. Ciri gestured to Cahir. “I’ll drive you home.” 

He was still limping. He nodded. Geralt glanced at her, but Ciri gestured.  _ I’ll talk to you at home _ . 

Silence in the car. Ciri didn’t like it. Her teeth chattered as she waited for her heat to kick in. “What… are you thinking?” She squinted. The bright light even through the clouds clacked against the snow, creating a blinding effect. 

“In my dreams,” Cahir said. “Milva is also pregnant, while we’re a group looking to find you. An arrow hits her in the stomach…” His voice trailed off. “Anyways, last night, I was so scared that it was happening again.” 

“But it didn’t,” Ciri said, pulling out of the parking lot. The steering wheel felt like ice against her palms “The baby’s alive.” 

“Yes,” Cahir agreed. “He’s alive.” 

“So,” Ciri said. “No skating for you, not for awhile. Are you in pain?”

“It’s fine.”

“Liar, liar.”

He snorted. 

“Are your parents and family still—were they still the same in the old world?” Ciri asked. “As far as you remember?”

“Why do you remember more than I do?” Ciri asked. “It kind of doesn’t seem fair, if our hypothesis that I did something to cause this to happen is correct.” 

Cahir laughed. “It doesn’t seem fair.” He sighed. “Maybe there are things you don’t want to remember.”

“Hmph.” 

“I don’t think you have to, either,” Cahir said. “You don’t have to remember, or not remember. It should be your choice.”

“My guess is that whatever deal I made with Morgana means it’s not actually my choice.”

“Well, then, she died a long time ago in a world far away, so screw her.”

Ciri chortled. “I don’t think it’s that I don’t want to, though. I think it’s more that I—” She stopped, shame slinging sticky cobwebs from cell to cell, thought to thought, inside her. Her skin crawled with an army of baby spiders, remembering Mistle, the cocaine test, when it was announced and everyone was calling her a cocaine addict. 

_ How much worse was it back then?  _

“I’m afraid to,” Ciri said. “I know it must seem dumb.”

“It doesn’t.” 

“Before you died,” Ciri said. “You fought Bonhart. You said that you’d come all this way to redeem yourself.” She turned where he directed her to. “Tell me.”

He spoke.

* * *

“So what exactly has been going on?” Geralt asked when Ciri walked back in the door. “Why were you meeting up with Cahir?” 

Ciri poured herself a glass of orange juice. She shrugged. The sky outside dimmed with twilight, golden caramel melting against puffy burnt orange clouds, seeping blackberry juice overtaking the sun. “We were meeting to talk about Emhyr. Again.” 

Yennefer pried her head up from where she’d been resting on the couch. Jaskier slouched in the corner. “Has he been harassing you?”

“He hasn’t given up, if that’s what you mean,” Ciri said. “There’s something—there. I don’t know what it is. I know that in the past, he wanted to marry me.”

Yennefer’s eyes bulged. Jaskier scrambled to his feet. Geralt glared. 

_ Not in this life _ . “As far as Cahir can tell, he won’t be attending the Olympics, but it is within the same country, and he could be using an alias.” 

“I’m going to arrange for extra security,” Jaskier said, already tapping out a text.

“No kidding,” Yennefer said. “We’re roommates at the village, and that place is airtight security-wise. You need all sorts of passes to get in, and press isn’t allowed.” 

“Why me?” Ciri managed.  _ Are you having those dreams too? You have to be.  _

Why, then, was she still so afraid to ask? 

“It’s not because of you, but because of his own issues,” Geralt said gruffly. 

_ I was supposed to save the world.  _

_ Am I a terrible person for leaving it instead, merely because I didn’t want to birth a child like a brood mare, used to create a savior? Because I wanted a choice?  _

She guessed that in the past, Emhyr wanted to impregnate her. Her hands trembled. 

_ It’s my body.  _ She remembered Milva, and she was glad for her friend, that she had chosen her son rather than had it forced upon her. 

_ I can’t be the chosen one. _

_ I can’t birth it. _

_ Yet, I did something.  _

What if her past self wanted a second chance so that she could actually birth a stupid child? Ciri wanted to cry at the thought. It hurt and it humiliated and it scratched and it wasn’t fair.  _ I never asked to be born! _

“Ciri,” said Geralt. “Be careful. I don’t trust Cahir.” 

_ You didn’t in the past life, either. According to him. He punched you though _ . “I am careful.”

“I know,” Geralt said, heaving a sigh. “But I want you to—”

“Stop,” Ciri interrupted, surprising herself at the brittle tone to her voice. “Stop, Geralt. It’s not—you don’t have to feel badly that you can’t entirely protect me yourself. It’s not up to you.”

The one she needed protection most of all from wasn’t Emhyr, or Bonhart, or Cahir, or anyone other than herself.  _ I’m afraid of what I did in the past. Both pasts. _

_ I’m afraid of what I’ll do in the future.  _

_ Aren’t you afraid of that, too?  _ She glanced from Geralt to Yennefer.  _ You, too? Can you overcome it? Are you collared forever?  _

“I know,” Geralt said thickly. “I just—I—”

“It doesn’t mean you’re weak,” Ciri said. “Or maybe it does, but who cares?” 

_ You’ve protected me other ways.  _

_ I have a home to come back to. _

_ I have someone to tell me I can do better.  _ Someone who wrapped a blanket around her shoulders when she sobbed after her life was plastered all over the news. 

“You can do better,” Ciri said, repeating it. “Both of you, Geralt, Yennefer. You can do better, too.” 

“Huh?” asked Yennefer.

“Should I be here?” wondered Jaskier.

“What’s that about?” Geralt asked.

_ You won’t fail. We won’t fail like last time. I won’t lose you. _

_ Unless, it’s fate... _

* * *

Milva was able to leave the hospital after a few days, although the baby—Eligiosz, as he was now named—had to stay. Ciri went back to training and texting Cahir whenever she had dreams. Vysogota commented that he seemed pleased with Ciri’s progress, even if she wasn’t able to tell him part of it was because she no longer worried about going insane but couldn’t tell him for fear of him thinking she was. 

_ “You’re not alone,” _ Vysogota said regarding Cahir. “ _ I think that’s good.” _

_ “But I don’t know what I want yet.” _

_ “Is he pressuring you to decide?” _

_ “Well, no.” _

_ “Then give it time. Give yourself time. It’s been a wild year in your life.”  _

_ Meet me at the rink _ , she texted Cahir the night before she and Yennefer were to board the plane for the Olympics. _ I won’t make you skate. _

“Anxious?” he asked her.

“What do you think?” She unlocked the door, kicking the clumps of snow off her boots and grabbing her skates.

“I would be.”

Ciri dropped onto the bench, wriggling her feet into her skates. “When you died, Cahir. In the past. Were you scared?”

Cahir leaned against the side of the rink, watching as she tied the laces. “I suppose. I remember flashing back, thinking of—my brother’s death. My mother told me to never forget that the Northerners had killed him. To always hate, and I promised I would.” 

“But you died for love,” Ciri said. “Nice one.”

Cahir laughed. “Yeah, it didn’t work out.”

“If everything is going so much better this life,” Ciri said, easing herself onto the ice. “As in, Milva’s baby is fine, then why did your brother still die?”  _ Did I fail somehow?  _

Cahir caught his breath. “I don’t know.” 

Ciri skated backwards, Cahir watching her as she turned into a spiral. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s not your fault!” 

“I mean, you died for me.”

“No,” Cahir countered. “I died to redeem myself.” 

“You don’t have to die to redeem yourself. Only boring stories do that.” Ciri practiced an Ina Bauer. “You don’t owe me your life.” She spun, her hair whipping around her face, into her eyes, blinding her. And she didn’t care. She whirled faster and faster, until she almost plummeted to the ice from dizziness. She laughed, catching her breath. 

“You know,” said Cahir. “You don’t owe me anything.”

Ciri shrugged.

“I’ll do my best to make sure Emhyr won’t bother you, though.” 

“Why thank you.” She skated towards the rail, leaning over so that the tip of her nose touched his. “Take care of Milva while we’re gone, okay? I don’t want her to get lonely.”

Cahir nodded. He drew in his breath. “Ciri? Can I ask a selfish question?”

A sarcastic retort stopped on the tip of her tongue. Ciri leaned back, still holding onto the rail. “Shoot.”

“You asked if I loved you,” Cahir said. “In the past—life, or whatever it was.”

“Yes…”

“Maybe I loved an idea of you,” said Cahir. “But I knew who that girl was. I knew she was free, and I wanted—I wanted to be free, too. But you were—my destiny. My hope. And if you decide you don’t want to date me, that's okay. You’ll still have been a part of my destiny.” He brought her hand to his mouth, brushing his lips along her knuckles.

“Your lips are chapped,” Ciri remarked.

Cahir gawped. “That’s what you have to say?” 

“What, did you spend all day trying to figure out what to say?”

“Yes, and I used none of what I had planned.” 

“Well,” Ciri said. “I’ll admit I’m dealing with—a lot right now, Cahir. So I do need time. But I—do like you. And there are lots of things you don’t know about me, either—this life is one thing, but in the other one, too.” Her voice cracked. “Things I’m not particularly proud of. People I hurt, stole from, killed—I—” 

He took her hands, lifting them from the rail. His were cold from the chill of the ice, white even. “You don’t have to be ready to tell me.” 

Ciri blinked. 

“You’re like Yennefer,” he remarked.

“I am?”

“Yes. You are. Even when you come with barbs and—issues—they somehow make you even more—attractive. I should feel most ashamed around you, but I don’t, not anymore. I don’t feel ashamed at all—”

“Good,” said Ciri. “Good.” 

_ You hurt me in the past. _

_ They failed me in the past. _

_ I hurt, and I failed. _

_ Destiny is hope.  _

_ I hope for a better future _ . She pressed her lips against his. “Even if it doesn’t work out,” she said. “I don’t regret this.”

* * *

Her room in the Olympic village had white walls and pink comforters over two twin beds. Spartan by comfortable. Renfri and Adda were sharing a room across the hall, and insisted on taking a selfie to post on Renfri’s instagram. 

Yennefer was mostly excited about the condoms with Olympic Rings on the packaging, the ones that came with their room. “Think Geralt will be jealous if I find use for these with some of the fittest human beings alive?”

“I think you should text him that,” Ciri told her, unpacking her suitcase.

Yennefer laughed. 

Opening ceremonies were crowded and draining. Ciri was glad she didn’t have to compete the next day like some of those competing in the team event did. That practice was a splatfest. She, Renfri, and Adda shared the ice with three other competitors, including the one who would be Ciri’s biggest competition for the gold, the seventeen-year-old who won the Grand Prix. She didn’t have a triple axel like Ciri, or a quad, but her jumps were exquisite and her combination—a triple lutz-triple loop— more difficult than Ciri’s triple lutz-triple toe in the short. Plus, the lutz-loop combo was the last jump, conducted in the second half of the program for a bonus. Ciri only had her flip in the last half. 

“You still have an advantage,” Yennefer told her. “In technical scores. Just keep the performance up and prioritize grades of execution, and you’ll be fine.” 

“Don’t worry about her,” Renfri assured Ciri. At twenty-three, Renfri was one of the older skaters in the competition. She had been national champion three times in a row before Ciri dethroned her. “You’ll have her beat.” 

“I’m really not sure which people here genuinely believe I’m a coke addict,” Ciri responded. 

“None that you know of,” Yennefer chimed in. 

“Hey, if you were, I’d be impressed.” Renfri winked. 

Philippa was back, interviewing them after various practices. “What are your goals for the competition?”

“To make the top twelve,” Adda told her. 

“To beat my finish at the last Olympics,” Renfri told her. She had been eleventh. 

“To have a wonderful time and grow as a person and skater,” Ciri said with a false smile. “No, but actually, I want to perform my programs well, as myself, and show what I can do. Of course, I want to be on the podium.” 

She couldn’t say entirely what she wanted: to be on the  _ top _ of the podium. But she did want it. She wanted it badly.

_ I want to prove everyone who hated me wrong.  _

She watched the team event with Yennefer from her room. Her country wasn’t strong enough to boast medal-worthy performances in other disciplines of figure skating. Westeros won, with Middle Earth taking second and Scadriel third. 

“Nothing from Emhyr,” Cahir told her over the phone. “But I did see that Bonhart bought a ticket.”

Ciri swore. “He’ll probably try to sit right up front, to intimidate me.”

“You could always slice his face with your boot.”

Ciri snorted. But for whatever reason, she didn’t tell Yennefer or Geralt. 

The day of the short program, she Facetimed with Geralt, who landed the night before, and took a nap in the early afternoon. When she woke, her heart was pounding. 

_ “As lady of space and time,” she said to the girl with mahogany hair. “Will you help me? Help me see them all again, in a world where we can have a chance?” _

_ “You can have a chance in this one,” Morgana said. “But you can’t bring what’s dead back to life.” _

_ “I have choices,” Ciri said. “They had them, too, but they lost theirs when they died. I won’t leave them there.” _

_ “It comes at a price,” said Morgana. “You won’t be able to forget forever. Not every good quality can be replicated and not every bad trait can be erased. There’s a lot out of your control. No one will be able to control if the people you care about repeat their mistakes, or make them worse, or make better choices.”  _

_ “I have faith in them,” Ciri said, heart pounding. “In Geralt, in Yennefer, in all those people who died for me.” _

_ Morgana looked sad, her scarred face twitching. “Your enemies will also have another chance to get to you. Are you really willing to risk going through all of that again?”  _

_ Ciri felt as if a collar, as if a leash were chained to her neck. She tried to swallow and sputtered.  _

_ And then she remembered. _

I am the Lady of Space and Time, the Lion Cub of Cintra. 

_ I don’t want to repeat any of it.  _

_ I’ll try. I’ll do my best.  _

_ And maybe they will, too.  _

_ “That’s okay,” Ciri said.  _

_ “When you all remember, you might have to deal with a lot,” Morgana warned. “Even if the trauma isn’t repeated, you’ll remember the original one. If it has been, well, then—”  _

_ “I’ll recover.”  _

_ “You really think this is the wise choice?” _

_ “I don’t know,” Ciri said. “It might very well not be. But it is a choice, and I’m making it.”  _

Hands shaking, Ciri dialed Cahir. He didn’t answer. She scowled, throwing her phone down onto the too-stiff pillow.  _ I know what I did. _

If meeting together again was destiny, then—

_ I made it happen. _

_ My choice. _

Ciri drew in her breath. She closed her eyes, searching. An image floated to the forefront of her mind. Skating, then, there. Blood. Bonhart, screaming. A wound to her face. 

Even there, she skated. 

And she won. 

Her phone rang. She grasped it. Yennefer rolled over from her nap, mumbling with her hair slung every which way. 

“Cahir?” Ciri asked.

“You called?” 

“Yeah.” Ciri slipped out into the hallway, detailing her dreams, her skating dream. 

“Wow,” said Cahir. “You really missed us, huh?”

“I barely knew you.” 

“Well, I’m glad I got to come along for the ride.” 

Ciri chuckled, squatting against the wall. Her voice came small, like a child’s: “Are you watching tonight?” 

“I am,” Cahir said. “Promise. Angoulême texted me that she didn’t sleep last night; she was so excited.”

Ciri wasn’t surprised. 

“Did you get Milva’s message?”

“I haven’t checked yet. I just woke up from a nap.”

“Check,” said Cahir. “The baby’s going to get to go home tomorrow.”

Ciri clapped her hand over her mouth. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.” 

“I’m so glad.” 

“Me too.”

“I’ll call her briefly,” said Ciri. “Then I have to eat and get ready. Triss is going to do my hair. Choreographer and beauty stylist, she is.” 

“Good luck. And Ciri?”

“Mm.” 

“You should just be you, be free. Even when Bonhart had you, even if he had you, you were still untamed. You were free. You could break that collar. You are not who he defines you as, who Emhyr defines you as, whom anyone defines you as. Remember that when you go onto the ice.” 

Ciri snorted. “Did you write that out?”

“Absolutely.” 

“Cheesy, but I forgive you.” She hung up. 

The short program was already underway when she entered the rink, television crews taping her walking in. She gave a small wave. Her heart pounded as she ducked into the locker room. Adda and Renfri had already arrived, Adda having skated in one of the earliest groups since her international ranking was lower. Renfri was almost ready to go onto the ice for her warm-up. She had her airpods in, eyes closed as she focused.

“Come here, darling,” Triss said, grinning as she began to work on Ciri’s hair. She combed it back into its normal bun style, but she added several ribbons in black, dark blue, and silver, weaving them through Ciri’s hair.

“I like it,” Ciri said as Yennefer powdered sparkling eyeshadow over Ciri’s lids, barking at her to keep her eyes shut. 

“Good.” Triss winked. 

Backstage, Ciri reached for her phone. Yennefer took it from her. “Not the time.”

Ciri scowled. But Yennefer was right. She focused on mentally rehearsing, stretching, practicing choreography. Her stomach felt as if it was in knots.

She hadn’t felt this way since her first worlds. She extended her arm again. “Yennefer, does this look stiff?”

“Dunno,” said Yennefer with a shrug.

Ciri narrowed her eyes. 

“Listen, Ciri,” said Yennfer. “I think you know what to do tonight. It’s up to you. Whether you come across stiff or fully sexy, whether you’re trying to please the audience or yourself, I want you to come off the ice proud, okay? Don’t listen to me. Don’t—”

“No,” Ciri interrupted. “I want to listen to you.”

It was almost time. 

“Show me who you are,” said Yennefer, voice thick. “Go, my daughter.” 

Ciri had heard those words before, in her dreams, in a different place, in a different time, a real battle rather than a battle for points. Ciri’s eyes filled. She wrapped Yennefer in a hug.

“Line up, line up!” called a voice. 

Yennefer gave her a nod. Ciri stepped back.

_ It’s time.  _

Ciri joined the other girls for the last skating group of six. They all entered the arena, skating onto the ice and pausing in a line for introductions.

A huge cheer broke the air when her name was introduced. She was skating first in this group. The cheer sent shivers through her, but not in an unpleasant way. She lifted both of her hands, waving. 

Her gaze caught the scoreboard above. Renfri was in third place for now, but with six left to go, six who all had high enough standing to be in this last group, that was unlikely to hold. Still, Ciri felt happy for her. At the end of the short, Renfri would be in ninth at worst—already a step up. 

Ciri warmed up, practicing her triple axel and landing it. The Grand Prix winner warmed up a triple lutz-triple loop-triple loop-triple loop.

_ Show-off. _ Ciri didn’t fault her, though. They were all trying to intimidate each other by showing off their skills. In the men’s program, there was a skater who liked to skate notoriously close to the others practicing or warming up with him, scare them out of their minds. Ciri thought that was bullshit. 

She two-footed her lutz again and scowled to herself. Not during the program, she wouldn’t. No way. 

The crowd formed a steady hum, much louder than the din of worlds or nationals. Ciri hoped she could hear her music. 

Maybe all she would be able to hear was her heart, which sounded as if it was throwing a tantrum inside her chest. _ Could you calm down already?  _

She closed her eyes and thought of Morgana. 

It didn’t matter that Bonhart was there, somewhere, in a sea of people.

_ I brought you back. You’re here because of me. _

_ I brought you back because you are worth enduring if it means I get to see the people I love. _

_ I don’t care that you’re watching. Because so are they. So are they.  _

Ciri’s gaze found Geralt, sitting up in the crowd. Angoulême held a sign cheering her on, and she was on her feet, shaking the sign. Jaskier cupped his hands over his mouth, shouting something she couldn’t make out over the din. 

And next to him was Cahir.

_ You—are here?  _

_ In person? _ Ciri almost stumbled during a simple crossover. 

_ You are. _

Ciri skated back over to Yennefer, shrugging out of her warm up jacket. “Cahir’s here.”

“I know,” Yennefer said with a smirk. 

Triss chuckled. “Regis gave him his ticket. He’s helping Milva back home.” 

A lump formed in Ciri’s throat. She squeezed both of their hands. 

_ “Ladies, warm-up is now over! Please exit the ice.” _

Over. 

That meant—

_ My time.  _ Ciri gulped. She glanced at Yennefer as the other girls made their way off the ice. None of them spoke—not Yennefer, not Triss, not Ciri. 

She had to let go of the rink, skate to her opening pose in the middle of the ice, alone. Ciri drew in her breath. 

“I’m already proud,” Yennefer whispered. 

“Thank you.” Ciri pushed off, turning and skating towards the center. She slowed, raising her knee, tilting her head and holding one arm above her head, fingers carefully arranged according to Triss’s elegant choreography.

_ Now.  _

_ I am not a delinquent. I am not a tool to be advertised with. I am— _

The opening notes of her music sounded. Ciri twitched her fingers, turning and using crossovers to gather speed. 

_ An enchantress. A sorcerer, a mage, a daughter. Sexy, strong. _

_ A witcheress.  _

She geared up for her triple axel, hearing Bonhart’s voice as she stood nude and with a collar around her neck:  _ Don’t flatter yourself.  _

_ If I’ll be stripped down, it will be my own doing.  _

_ You don’t own me. You never did. _

_ “Say goodbye to your life! You’ve met your match, Bonhart!”  _

She landed her triple axel, and the butterflies in her stomach flew out of her. 

_ Fuck this collar.  _

_ I am the Lady of Space and time. _

_ I’ll let them know me, because they love me, because they’re in the crowd, not you, Bonhart _ . Geralt and Yennefer, Angoulême, Jaskier, Cahir, Milva and Regis and Vysogota back home and Milva’s baby son, breathing on his own now, a future ahead of him instead of a death before he even breathed. 

_ None of you are perfect. You’ve all hurt me, and I’ve hurt you, but you’re here because you like me—love me.  _

Ciri finished her first spin sequence and launched into her triple lutz-triple toe. Easy. 

She remembered gliding across the ice the night before flying out, her hair flying everywhere, Cahir failing to read what he’d written and just telling her, straight-up, what he felt.

_ I loved that. _

And even now—whatever happened in the past wasn’t her future. Ciri twisted into her serpentine-patterned step sequence. 

_ The future is right here. It’s every second. It’s every turn and every spin, every jump hoping you’ll land well.  _

She landed the lutz a little low, but hung on. She was not falling, or putting her other foot down, dammit. She leaned back into a cantilever, stretching her arms out in the air before launching into her final spin sequence as the music rose to its final crescendo. 

Sweating, she struck her final pose, reminiscent of her beginning one, but fiercer, more defiant. She looked as if she could be holding a sword. 

She had, before.

Cheers abounded. Flowers and stuffed animals rained onto the ice. Ciri bowed to the audience, and then found her way to Yennefer.

“That was amazing,” Yennefer said, squeezing Ciri in a hug. “Best you’ve performed that.”

“Did I look like me?”

“What do you think?”

“I think yes.” Ciri laughed. Triss handed her her skate guards, and she found her way to the kiss and cry.

The cameras focused on her. Ciri gulped water and waved at the screen. “Hi Milva, Regis, Vysogota! I miss you!” 

Cheers went up again when her score was announced. 

82.25. 

“Yes!” Ciri exclaimed, pumping her fist. It wasn’t impossible for the other girl to beat it, but she’d made it impossible for her to have a significant advantage in the free. 

“Seems low,” Yennefer commented.

Ciri laughed. They went backstage to wait for the results, as Ciri knew that the top three would have to give a press conference. 

She ended up in second. 82.43 for the girl who won the Grand Prix. 

“Grr,” Yennefer said.

“Don’t worry,” Triss assured Ciri. “You have an advantage in the free, repeating the axels and with the combination.” 

“I know. I’m not worried.” Though she knew the reporters would surely try to hype up the drama. Ciri glanced at the final results.

_ TARGARYEN, Daenerys 82.43 _

_ CINTRA, Cirilla 82.25 _

_ ROHAN, Éowyn 79.83 _

_ TARKHEENA, Aravis 79.80 _

_ STARK, Sansa 75.46 _

_ SKAA, Vin 72.35 _

_ BLAVIKEN, Renfri 70.69 _

_ MARTELL, Arianne 69.92 _

_ FATA, Giselle 69.08 _

_ FOLTEST, Adda 65.23 _

_ EVENSTAR, Arwen 64.12 _

_ GLOME, Orual 63.79 _

At least Renfri had to be pleased about being not only seventh, but just outside of the final group and honestly, within a meltdown from the podium. And there would always be a meltdown. That Ciri knew. 

She was not going to let it be her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look... I needed names for Ciri's competitors and then I got carried away.


	6. Death Spiral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some (mild) nsfw this chapter.

“Nice!” Yennefer yelled, clapping her hands. Ciri smirked, skating back over to her coach. Her run-through at practice had just ended, and she’d nailed everything in the free. She started off practice with practicing her triple axel-triple toe three times in a row. Now it was time for Daenerys’s run-through, and she was nailing her elements too.  _ Good _ . Ciri didn’t want to win through a breakdown. At the very least, she hoped Daenerys stayed on her feet.

“You know there was a skate-off for them?” Renfri told her the night before. “Four of them made the Grand Prix Final, along with Éowyn and Vin. Arianne Martell narrowly beat Margaery Tyrell at nationals for bronze, and so even though Margaery got bronze at the Grand Prix and Arianne fourth, she didn’t make it to the Olympics.” 

Ciri winced. She knew Margaery from the past two World Championships. “Did she fall?”

“Yep,” Renfri confirmed. “Twice in the free.”

That would do it. Ciri sighed. She already knew that Éowyn won silver at the Grand Prix. If Ciri or Daenerys had mistakes, Éowyn could and would easily capitalize on that opportunity. 

“She’s good,” Yennefer confirmed, watching Daenerys land her triple salchow. “But you don’t have to concern yourself with how good she is. Focus on how good you are. I’ll focus on hexing her.”

“Yennefer!”

“I’m kidding.” Yennefer smirked. “I’m kind of kidding.” 

Ciri rolled her eyes, gulping water from her bottle. They went back to the Olympic Village, where Ciri showered and then dropped onto her bed for Yennefer to use the shower. 

Milva had texted her. She smiled, pulling up a video of Milva carrying her son through the door to her apartment.

Her phone rang. She flopped over, answering. “Geralt!” 

“Hey,” Geralt said, smiling. “How did practice go?”

“Really well,” Ciri confirmed, resting her chin on her fist. “Here’s to hoping.” 

“You’ll do well,” Geralt said. “I’m already proud of you.”

“I heard you and Yennefer are going out to dinner,” Ciri said.

“And you—”

“Nah,” Ciri interrupted. “I want to get a lot of rest tonight.” Her stomach felt as if it were jumping around inside of her, knocking into each organ. Eating would be hard enough in the cafeteria, but outside, in the city, where everyone would recognize her—no. She did not want to. 

“Fair,” Geralt agreed.

“Besides,” Ciri added, heart picking up pace. “You and Yennefer could use some alone time. We’ve been here two weeks already, and—”

“Ciri—”

“You love her,” Ciri said.

Geralt cleared his throat. “Ciri, that’s not—” 

“But you do,” said Ciri, leaning towards the screen. “You do, Geralt. So what? You have to  _ do _ something about it. Don’t just—stand there.” Her eyes stung. “Marry her.”

Geralt just gaped at her. He didn’t seem to have words. His lips opened and closed, garbled sounds emerging. 

“You should,” Ciri said. “Let her know how much you love her.”

“Ciri, we—”

“Geralt.” She arched her brows, pretending to scowl at him.

“She could—” Geralt stopped. “Say no.”

Ciri couldn’t contradict him. “So what? The hell with the outcome. Her choice matters, but so does yours. All you can do is offer her that choice.” 

_ I don’t think you were able to marry in the past life. _

_ You’re meant to be together. Through space and time. _

_ Because… you give each other hope.  _

The shower turned off. Ciri sighed. “I have to go. See you.” She hung up just before Yennefer emerged, towel-drying her hair.

“Boyfriend?” asked Yennefer.

“Yours,” Ciri said.

Yennefer’s mouth dropped open. “I wasn’t aware that’s what Geralt and I were.”

“You love him,” Ciri said, studying the blank screen of her phone. 

Yennefer paused, focusing on untangling her hair. She didn’t answer. 

“He loves you, you know.” 

“I know,” Yennefer said quietly. 

“And?” Ciri pressed.

Yennefer narrowed her eyes, and then she sighed and sat on her bed, facing Ciri, resting her elbows on her knees. “And, I'm afraid that will hurt him. I'm afraid it will hurt me.”

“He’s terrible at emotions,” Ciri said. “Grumpy and judgemental. But he’d risk everything for you, for me. I don’t think you’re any different, are you? You’re the same, and that’s what you’re afraid of. That you might be capable of being a better person than you’ve acted like.” 

“I am perfectly capable of being the best, thank you.” Yennefer leaned back on her palms. 

Ciri snorted. “He’s afraid of you, too.”

“I know. God help him. Emotions. Hormones. The horror.”

“You’re not much better with them.”

“Since when did my daughter start lecturing  _ me?” _ Yennefer smirked. 

Ciri hesitated, and then texted Cahir.  _ Want to visit the Village? _

_???? That’s allowed??? _

She watched Yennefer put on lipstick to meet with Geralt.  _ If I can get a pass. Hold on. _

She dialed the head of her country’s organization, asking if there were any of the strictly allotted guest passes left for the day. “Nervous about the competition and would be great if a friend could come and join me.” 

  
  


Within an hour, Yennefer had left, and Ciri met Cahir at the guest station, where his pass was approved. 

“When you have clout,” Ciri informed him, linking her arm with his as they walked through the Olympic Village. Cahir gaped at the towering buildings of dorms, different flags dangling from different buildings. A recreational pool spread out to the left. She took him to the cafeteria, which was buzzing full of athletes. Ciri spotted Éowyn and Arwen eating together and waved. They waved back. 

Cuisine from everywhere melded together in an almost overpowering scent of spice and roasted meat and fresh vegetables and fruit. Several of the skiers were having what looked like a drinking contest, their events likely over by now. 

“Did you ever do any sports?” Ciri asked as they sat down at one of the side tables. She had a bowl with spinach and broccoli, chicken and sweet potatoes, all over quinua. Cahir looked skeptical, but he had copied her. 

“Sure,” Cahir said. “Horseback riding, soccer, all those things kids do when they’re young. I was decent, but certainly nothing like—these people.” He gestured to a shirtless, perfect specimen of man walking man. Ciri wiggled her eyebrows, and he laughed.

“My grandmother used to skate,” Ciri said. “Never made it to the Olympics, though.”

“I know.”

“Of course you do, private detective. What made you get into that?” She crunched down on the broccoli. 

Cahir shrugged. “Emhyr actually suggested it. My family was—friendly with him. My father worked for him for a number of years. I think after my—mess-up, he lost his job.”

Ciri frowned. “Is your father still—I mean, are you in contact?”

Cahir’s face flushed. He hung his head. “Not really. I—was too ashamed. They—despite what I did, despite the fact that they had me doing internships at Nilfgaardian Enterprises from the time I was fourteen—they wouldn’t approve of doing that kind of dirty work. My mother might come around, but my father—he’d be shocked and disappointed, worried. So, after that came out, I didn’t contact them.” He stabbed his fork into a piece of grilled chicken.

Ciri’s fork clattered against her bowl. “You never mentioned that.”

“It’s not as if I’m proud of it, and it’s not as if I don’t know that you were the real victim, Ciri.” His blue eyes met hers. “Honestly, even avoiding my parents is on me.”

“Shut up,” Ciri said. “He—” She curled her fist, biting through the raw broccoli like it was a crunching bone. “He’s an asshole.” 

“He’s a typical CEO. Wants dirt on his enemies. Why you, I have no idea.”

“He’ll be there tomorrow, won’t he?” asked Ciri.

“I don’t know. I can’t find anything.”

“He will,” Ciri said. “And the cameras will show him because he’s a big-shot. He’ll want to witness my defeat.”

“Well, you’re not going to lose.” Cahir pointed his fork at her. “You’ll win.”

“Out of spite if nothing else,” Ciri joked. 

“I really don’t know why he’s so stuck on you,” said Cahir. “My dreams haven’t told me anything. Do you think he has them, too?”

“Obviously,” Ciri said. “Maybe he remembers why.” She sighed, picking her fork back up. “I hope the cameras show you, too. They’ll probably pan to Geralt, and since you’ll be with him—”

Cahir swallowed.

“Call your family,” Ciri told him. “If you want to. If you don’t, then, I suppose, don’t, but—” She clutched the edge of the table, knuckles cracking. 

“They weren’t perfect,” Cahir said. “They pushed me too hard, used me for my father’s career, but they—I think they loved me. Really.”

_ You’re hurting, too. _

_ You’re trying to find out just how you matter in this world. These worlds.  _

_ You saw me as your destiny, but I can’t make you matter.  _

_ You already do. _

They finished their meal and Ciri took Cahir’s hand, pulling him along as they made their way back to her dorm. She was on the seventh floor, and a snowboarder and a bobsledder from different countries were making out in the elevator. Ciri stifled her giggles. 

“They do give free condoms,” Ciri whispered. “I wonder if Yennefer’s using them tonight.” 

Cahir snorted.

“Ta-da!” Ciri pushed the door to her room open. A small kitchen attached to a bedroom with two twins, a television mounted on the wall in front of the beds, and a bathroom. “Kind of like a hotel room. Nothing fancy.”

“Are the beds comfortable?”

“I mean, I’ve had worse, but they’re not luxury.” Ciri bounced on one of them. “You have to leave by nine. Rules for guests, and if you don’t they’ll come find you. Also, they have your passport.”

“I’m aware,” Cahir said. “My mother was born in your country, you know, even if I grew up here. So I have dual citizenship.”

“Really?” She hadn’t known, but that explained how he was still able to stay in her country without a decent job. “Tell me more about your siblings. I want to meet them someday. And get all sorts of embarrassing stories about you.”

Cahir laughed and smacked her with the pillow. She shrieked. 

“Actually,” Ciri said, rolling onto her stomach and tucking the pillow under her. “I wanted to talk to you.” 

Cahir cocked an eyebrows. 

Shit. How was this so hard? 

“Look,” Ciri said, tugging a fallen strand of hair from her shoulder. “I—am glad to have you here. I’m glad you’re helping me. You wanted me to be your hope, but I can’t be. But you’ve been part of mine. You made yourself a better person. I want to do that, too, and I think—I can believe that.” She pushed herself upright, tossing the pillow aside. “Am I making any sense?” 

Cahir seemed unable to speak. He gave a nod. 

She shifted closer, hand cupping his jaw. She could feel slight stubble scratching her palms. His eyes stayed glued to hers, sapphire to her emerald. 

He leaned in, forehead resting against hers. “Ciri.”

“Mm.”

“Can—”

“Kiss me,” she said. “I know you want to.” 

“Is this a good idea the day before your—”

_ Fuck it _ . Ciri leaned in, clutching his chin, pulling his lips up to meet hers as she knelt over him. She tilted her head to the side, kissing him like she hadn’t kissed anyone besides Mistle. Heat sprung up inside her belly, vines rising to her chest and gripping every nerve in her torso on their climb. Sweat prickled at the back of her neck. 

She eased herself back so that she was lying flat, Cahir atop her. Her lips felt numb, and yet she didn’t want to pull away. She bit at his lip, not hard enough to bleed. 

He pulled back. “Ciri, are you—is this what you want to do? Because I don’t want to pressure—if you’re not, I can wait. I can—”

“I want to,” Ciri said, heart thumping, face flushed. “There are, um, condoms in the bathroom.”

“Is Yennefer going to be gone for awhile?”

“I’d bet on it, but even if she came back, she’d probably just turn around and pretend she didn’t see anything. She really wouldn’t care. Now, if it were Geralt, he might pummel you.”

Cahir laughed. He ducked into the bathroom, and Ciri sat up, waiting. Her heart pounded. 

They kissed again, slower, deeper. She could feel her lips again. She eased her shirt off first, unbuttoning his and pushing it down his biceps. He fumbled with her bra, and she teased him before unclasping it herself. When she slipped off her sweatpants, Cahir kissed the rose tattoo on her thigh. 

“Mistle and I got matching tattoos,” she admitted. Would that bother him?

But he traced it with his fingertips. “It’s beautiful.”

_ Thank you _ . Ciri unbuckled his jeans, pulling him over her again. She and Mistle usually weren’t completely nude together; she’d wear a shirt, or keep something on. This time, both of them was nothing to cover themselves with. 

_ I’m scared. _

_ That’s okay. _

Ciri wrapped her arms around his shoulders, holding him close as they rocked together, awkwardly at first, then finding a rhythm to go with their pants and gasps. 

Last time—why was she thinking of last time? How could she not be?—she wasn’t ready yet.  _ I didn’t want it to be like this.  _ Not even the times she initiated. 

_ I don’t think either of us could fully trust.  _

_ I hope you can someday, Mistle.  _ And Mistle’s mirage faded away, and she focused on his blue eyes, the eyes that had gone dark for her once, the eyes that trusted her, the eyes that reflected different shades of blue, midnight with the orange gleam of the lamplight sparking like fire. 

She pulled his face down for a kiss right as her abdomen clenched, but instead of pain, there was something bright that flooded her limbs, warm, at once energizing and relaxing. 

When she came to, he had onto her, head resting between her shoulder and neck. “You okay?” Ciri whispered.

He lifted his head. “Yeah. You?”

She nodded. He rolled over to her side, tracing her profile.

She snorted, twisting onto her side, facing him. “Do you think I can win tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think I can ever escape Emhyr and Bonhart in this life?”

Cahir tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yes.” 

“Without losing,” she said. “I’m not losing anyone this time. Not you. Not Yennefer or Geralt. Not Jaskier, or Milva, or Angoulême. Milva’s baby’s alive. We’re all going to live, too.” She clutched his face. 

“I believe you,” he said. “I want to.” 

She nodded, a lump in her throat. And then a strange feeling overcame her, and she was somewhere else, in someone’s arms, tears running down her face instead of sweat, and she heard a voice she had never heard before, a voice she knew instantly. 

Everything flooded her. Ciri’s eyes bulged. She jolted up. Cahir, too, clutched his skull.

Ciri glanced at him. “Did you—just remember everything?” 

“I think so,” he whispered, pushing himself to sit up. “Ciri—” 

“He doesn’t want to witness my defeat. He wants to witness my victory,” Ciri managed. “Emhyr. I remembered. When he let me go.”

“What do you mean?” Cahir grasped her forearms. “If you and I remember, everything, then does that mean—everyone else—” 

“I don’t know.” Panic shook inside of her. Did this mean he would let her go again, in this world? Or would he view it as an opportunity to do things over again

“He’s my father,” she managed. “He didn’t die with my mother. He—he said  _ goodbye, my daughter.” _

Cahir’s face twisted. “He wanted to marry you!” 

Ciri shook her head. “I know!” 

Cahir moaned. 

“I meant it,” Ciri said. “I’m not losing any of you. Not this time. And I’m not losing tomorrow, or if I am, I’m not going down without a fight.” 

“Do you want me to look into who will be at the—”

“No,” said Ciri. “Let him come, if he comes. He won’t harm me. He won’t let Bonhart harm me, or Vilgefortz, not just yet. Not until after. Talk to Geralt. Come up with a plan—I should probably leave the village after the competition.” 

Cahir nodded. He left just before nine, when Yennefer came back. 

She paused in the doorway. “Geralt wants to call you.” 

“I sent Cahir to talk to him,” Ciri responded as Yennefer’s eyes fell to the rumpled bed. She folded her eyes. “Yennefer—those dreams—” 

“Are real,” Yennefer said huskily. “I know. Geralt and I both realized—”

“Around eight tonight?” Ciri asked. 

“Yes,” Yennefer confirmed. She sat down.

“After tomorrow,” Ciri said. “We leave the village. We’ll be safe for tonight, I think. Emhyr can’t bypass all this security.”

Yennefer nodded. “What did you do, Ciri? To bring us all—”

Ciri swallowed. “Morgana.” She detailed the story, as well as how this was the true reason she and Cahir started meeting. 

“Listen to me,” Yennefer said. “I made your father promise you last time, that he would never hurt you. But those others—”

“Vilgefortz and Bonhart,” Ciri said. “They’ll try.”

“They won’t succeed,” Yennefer vowed. “ _No one_ is hurting my daughter.”

* * *

Ciri did not sleep very well, which didn’t help her anxiety. She made it to practice and kept slipping on her axel.  _ Great _ . Daenerys had a few misses too, noticeably underrotating her loops and lutzes. Éowyn seemed to have it together more than either of them. 

“Ciri,” Yennefer told her after practice. “It’s okay. There are more important things.”

That didn’t satisfy. Ciri scowled. She checked her phone on the bus back to the hotel. Daenerys stared out her window, seemingly lost in thought. Éowyn bit at her nails. 

A text from Milva.  _ Regis is staying upstairs to protect us. Vysogota is nearby, too. _

And a text from Angoulême.  _ I’m glad we got to be friends this time. Please make me an honorary countess. Jaskier says his job is no less stressful here than there.  _

Ciri snorted.

_ Can’t wait to see you tonight _ , Geralt had texted.  _ You will do great _ . 

Ciri drew in her breath.  _ Thank you, _ she texted back. 

And that was what she saw it. Sparkling on Yennefer’s ring finger. Clear and bright, resting on a golden band.

Ciri gasped.

Everyone whirled. Aravis yelped. 

Ciri grasped Yennefer’s hand, dragging it up. “You got engaged?” 

Yennefer’s face flushed even under her bronze skin. “Ciri—” 

“Congratulations!” exclaimed Éowyn. 

“Your ring is beautiful!” cried Sansa.

“Wow,” breathed Vin.

“What’s the story?” asked Aravis.

Yennefer groaned. “Thank you all. Ciri, we were planning on telling you after—but with, you know, everything going on—”

“Don’t,” said Ciri, eyes stinging. “I’m happy.”

_ They married. _

_ They might… actually marry now. _

They would. She threw her arms around Yennefer’s neck. 

_ Some things are going right. _

* * *

“Put it in my mother’s style,” Ciri said as she entered the locker room to find Triss waiting.  _ You, too. _ She watched as the other girls rushed about. Renfri looked almost completely put together. “Good luck,” Ciri called to her and to Adda, who grinned. 

Triss arched her eyebrows.

“I can’t wear it in a braid,” said Ciri. “The braid would hit me. But get it as close as possible. I want Emhyr to see. I want him to remember. All of it.” Her blood boiled.  _ You got a second chance, and you still blew it.  _ “I want to remind him of Pavetta of Cintra.” 

Triss began to smirk. “Your wish is my command, your highness.”

“Don’t attract attention!” Yennefer hissed. 

Ciri changed into her costume, a glittering white ensemble decked out with silver Swarovski crystals and cutouts fringed in color: deep purple, blood red, blue like Cahir’s eyes and green like her mother’s and grandmother’s. 

_ You’re all with me.  _

Triss tugged at Ciri’s hair, weaving it into a braid that wrapped around her skull. Yennefer painted her eyes with liner and shadow, holding lipsticks to her color and debating before finally choosing the brighter one. 

“Two minutes, ladies!” hollered the man. Ciri drew in her breath.

_ Now. This is it.  _

Her limbs tightened. Aravis Tarkheena actually grasped the trash can and retched. 

“You got this,” Yennefer whispered, hands on Ciri’s shoulders. “You’re going to do this. No matter what, he cannot control you, and he cannot hurt you. You chose to even give him a better chance. It’s his fault for squandering it.”

“Tell me about how you got engaged,” Ciri said in a strangled voice. “Tell me, Yennefer.”

“He asked me to marry him. He said you—he had a ring from years ago. We left the restaurant and he pretended to have to tie his shoe—he was probably considering whether or not to actually do it—and then he pulled out a ring, and I laughed in his face. Laughed until I cried.”

“Laughed to keep  _ from _ crying, you mean,” Ciri said. “Unsuccessfully so.”

Yennefer swatted her shoulder. 

“Are you scared?” Ciri asked her.

Yennefer’s eyes misted. She nodded.

_ But you still said yes. _

_ Because we’re worth the risk. _

_ And so are all of you, to me.  _

“Line up, line up!” 

Ciri moved towards the line of girls. She was skating last in this group, thankfully. So she would know what sort of number she would need by the end. 

“Are you okay?” Daenerys whispered.

It took Ciri a minute to realize the girl was talking to her. Was this some kind of mental sabotage? “Yes,” she answered. “Yennefer and Geralt got engaged; I couldn’t be happier.” 

“Good,” said Daenerys, a smile on her face. “I was worried. Even if changes are good, they can be stressful. My boyfriend, Jon, showed up yesterday to surprise me, and I’m glad he’s here, but I’m also scared of—”

“Splatting on your face?” Ciri suggested. “My boyfriend surprised me, too. I also don’t want to splat on my face.”

Éowyn chuckled. “Faramir already competed in the men’s division, and he did splat a lot. But that’s okay.”

“Elend’s watching me from TV,” Vin said. “But we skyped before this.”

“Cor watches me from back home, too,” said Aravis, looking much better than she had before she puked. “Or, like, he tries to. He’s got an identical twin brother who laughs at him because apparently he watches through his fingers, like this.” She demonstrated. 

Everyone laughed. Sansa shook her head. “I haven’t got a boyfriend, but my family’s here. I used to date an asshole though, and he would make fun of me when I fell. Silver at junior worlds wasn’t good enough for him.”

“Sounds like a success leech,” said Éowyn. “Glad you dumped him.”

“He actually dumped me.”

“Well, it worked out well,” said Vin. “Who needs assholes?” 

Ciric chuckled.  _ We all want to win. But we’re all terrified.  _ “Good luck.” 

Daenerys studied her. “Good luck to you, also, Cirilla.”

“Ciri,” she said. “Everyone calls me Ciri.”

“Is your name really Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon?” asked Aravis. “That’s what Wikipedia says, but—”

“Yes, it is.” Ciri laughed. 

“Let’s go!” They were ushered out onto the ice, introduced one at a time. All of them got cheers. She glanced up at the scoreboard as the warm-up started.

_ BLAVIKEN, Renfri 212.32 _

_ MARTELL, Arianne 208.87 _

_ EVENSTAR, Arwen 201.13 _

_ FOLTEST, Adda 198.65 _

_ FATA, Giselle 194.58 _

_ GLOME, Orual 190.67 _

So Renfri would finish in seventh at the lowest, and Adda in tenth. Good. They’d both accomplished their stated goals.

And hers?

_ I want to perform my programs well, as myself, and show what I can do. _

_ I want to be on top of the podium. _

_ Because I can be. At my best.  _

If she had to finish in second, she at least didn’t want it to be because she fucked up a landing. 

“Warm up is now over,” came the announcement, and Ciri skated to the edge, gulping water. She gave Aravis a thumbs up and went backstage with the other four girls. Most plugged headphones in, twisting and pacing to stay warmed up. Ciri did likewise, but she didn’t turn her music on. Instead, she kept glancing at the screen. 

Aravis tumbled once, on her triple lutz. But with everything else landed perfectly, she still ended up in first, with 222.14 points. 

Vin went next. She landed everything, but with less difficulty than the other girls—her opening combination was only a triple toe-triple toe, she ended up just behind Aravis, with 218.79 points. 

And then Éowyn went, and the meltdown began. Well, not really. But she fell on her triple lutz-triple toe combination, and her triple lutz, and with that skate, she ended up with 219.33 points. Ciri was somewhat surprised she hadn’t fallen behind Vin, but her short program advantage protected her there.

“Damn,” Daenerys whispered, watching the screen as her countrywoman took the ice. 

But Sansa only two-footed her last jump, a triple lutz. She slid into first, with 224.82 points and probably knocking Aravis off the podium. But when the camera flashed towards Aravis sitting in the top three waiting area, she waved happily. In her first year as a senior, Aravis had plenty of time to learn to win, and Ciri suspected she would.

Ciri couldn’t watch Daenerys’s performance, even if the girl seemed lovely. When she slid onto the ice for one last warm-up while they waited for the score, she glanced back at Yennefer.

Yennefer nodded at her. 

Daenerys’s score came in. 234.97. She definitely hadn’t melted down. 

But it was beatable. If Ciri stayed on her feet. 

She skated towards the center of the rink, eyes searching. There! The same place as last time. Geralt and Jaskier, Angoulême and Cahir. Across the ocean, she knew Milva and Regis, Vysogota—they watched her. 

And there he was.

Emhyr. 

Her father.

No, he wasn't. Geralt was. Yennefer was her mother. 

Somehow, Ciri thought Pavetta would like that, even if she might mourn not being able to raise Ciri herself.

_ My mother deserved better. Both of my mothers. And my real father. _

_ You might have created me, but you don’t own me.  _

Did he remember? He had to. And if he didn’t— 

_ I’ll show you. _

_ A princess on the run,  _ Triss had said.  _ That’s your program. _

_ How much did you know when you choreographed it, Triss?  _ The ending was supposed to be that the princess triumphed, like Ciri had requested, and claimed her throne.

_ I don’t want a throne. _

_ I want something better.  _

The music started. Ciri let the notes wash over her, carrying her with their current. She thought of an innocent fifteen-year-old princess, a college student, honored by a man’s presence, seeing beyond the physical mask yet not, at first, beyond the kind mask. 

_ You didn’t believe in monsters, Mother, did you? _

_ Only people.  _

Triple axel-triple toe. She felt as if she floated through each rotation, barely noticing the difference between the ice and air. Spread eagle into another triple axel. A butterfly leap into a camel spin, hook her blade and bend her back into a doughnut position, switch blades, lower herself down into a pancake position sit spin, a sit spin with her arm up, an A spin. She wanted to get every level. Her brain felt compressed, like she was trapped, like when she was on the run, trapped by nightmares and haunted, like when she ran from Thanedd, like when she didn’t know how to push Mistle off her then or now, like when Bonhart put his collar on her. 

Her triple loop was next. She’d skated, even then. She’d broken away from Bonhart, found Vysogota, afterwards. Ciri threw her arms over her head for the loop. Perfect. 

The triple lutz-triple toe went next, her aiming for as much distance as possible.  _ I’ll go far.  _

In with the elves she fell. Ciri arched her back in a layout position as she spun. Her fingers grasped her blade again as she switched directions into a haircutter spin. She pulled the blade, her leg, over her head, ending in a Biellmann. 

_ I remembered. _

_ Ihuarraquax reminded me.  _

A unicorn, now a cat. She smirked to herself as she broke from her spin and went into her last combination, a triple flip-half loop-triple salchow. Her step sequence, punctuated by twizzles and choctaws, mohawks and rockers. She wove her way across the ice, gathering speed as the music rose. 

Triple lutz, nailed. She didn’t even land low this time. 

_ Mother, Grandmother, are you proud? _

_ I know Yennefer and Geralt are. _

_ They never gave up on me. Not once. Even when I gave up on them. _

Her last jump now. A double axel, so easy after the triple. She sped up, twisting at the last minute to launch herself forward into the air, spinning two and a half times before she landed. 

_ You’re not a monster, Emhyr. You might have been an emperor. You might be a CEO. _

_ But you are still just a man.  _

_ I’m not afraid of you.  _

_ If only you could think of yourself as something other than a monster and a ruler. Two seeming opposites, paradoxically fittingly combined.  _

She went from a cantilever to a hydroblade, tracing her fingers along the surface of the ice, cold even through her gloved fingertips. 

_ The girl who died in my arms is cheering for me right now. _

_ The parents whom I had to save by spiriting to Avalon are here, one of them raising me, one of them helping me rise again.  _

_ The silly bard is my agent, supporting me when others would have dropped me. _

_ The baby lost is alive in my friend’s arms. _

_ The vampire is whole, redeemed again, because it was always within him. _

_ The hermit is alive. Mistle is alive. So are the rats.  _

_ The boy who was my nightmares saved me from my nightmare, and I love him.  _

A scratch spin to a crossover spin, a corkscrew sit spin with her arms behind her back, fingers clasped, up to a Y spin. Her arms rose over her head when her leg came down. She twisted her head to the side, unable to stop the grin from spreading over her lips. 

The crowd was cheering. The music was silent. And she focused on him.

_ Emhyr. _

He wanted her to save the world. 

He wanted her son to save the world.

I’ll  _ save it.  _

_ I’ll start with Geralt and Yennefer, Cahir, and my friends.  _

_ If you want to be a part of it, that’s up to you. Or stay and be destroyed.  _

Ciri bowed to the audience, waving. She didn’t realize she was tearing up until she was at the edge of the rink and Yennefer was shoving her guards into her hand, Triss squealing. 

Ciri wrapped her arms around Yennefer, feeling herself almost go limp in her arms. Somehow, Yennefer and Triss half-carried her to the kiss-and-cry. Like last time, Ciri was grinning; unlike the short program, she was bawling and didn’t seem to be able to stop. 

“Thank you,” she managed to Yennefer, to Triss too. “Thank you.”

_ I did it.  _

“I’m so proud of you,” Yennefer choked out. “You took my fucking breath away, Ciri.”

“Yennefer, we’re on television!” yelped Triss.

Ciri burst out laughing. 

“The scores for Cirilla Cintra,” rang the announcer’s serious voice. Ciri clung to Yennefer’s hands, Triss’s arm around her shoulder. She felt the cool metal of Yennefer’s ring. 

_ “164.34, for a total of 246.59. _

_ She is in first place.”  _


	7. Scratch Spin

Gold medal around her neck, flower bouquet in her hand, the national anthem playing, Ciri couldn’t stop beaming. Her eyes stayed on her friends and family. Geralt was bloody crying. 

When they got off the podium, media flooded them, snapping photo after photo. The three of them took photos biting their medals, and Daenerys even suggested they take photos with Ciri holding up one finger, Daenerys two, and Sansa three. 

They were ushered towards a press conference, wearing headsets that would translate questions from international reporters, as well as translate their responses. 

“There’s no shame in losing to someone with a triple axel,” said Daenerys. “My double axel is my weakest jump, so I might need Ciri to give me pointers.”

“I knew I could do it,” Sansa said. “My sister, Arya, told me to just focus on my performance and not worry about how many points I’d have to make up after the short.” 

“I think it’s fair to say that you’ve had a pretty tumultuous season, Ciri,” said one of the reporters. “What does this victory mean to you?”

“Uh, what do you think it means?” Ciri replied. She laughed. “I mean, it’s something I’ve dreamed of my whole life, but it’s actually only the second best thing that’s happened today. The first best is that my dad, Geralt, got engaged to my coach, Yennefer. Without the two of them, and without my friends, and my doctor and my therapist, I wouldn’t have made it through this year. I’m profoundly grateful to them for their support.” 

“Did you ever wonder if you could pull it off?”

“Of course,” said Ciri. “It’s not a guarantee, especially when you’ve got such great competition. It’s not destiny.” She found Philippa’s gaze in the audience. _You know now, too._ “But I always had hope that I could, and when I wavered, my loved ones rallied around me.”

_Destiny is hope._

_I write my own destiny, and hope is the pen._

When the conference was over, Ciri raced to find Geralt and Yennefer. 

There they were! She threw herself into their arms, muffling a sob. “Thank you.” 

When she drew back, she pulled Cahir in for a kiss in front of Geralt and straggling media, and she didn’t even care. She hugged Angoulême and Jaskier, jokingly screaming into Angoulême’s TikTok for her to post. And Jaskier pulled up his phone, where Milva and the baby, Regis and Vysogota, the former even holding Ihuarraquax, were congratulating her. 

“I love you guys!” Ciri cried out.

She checked her phone. A text from Mistle. _Congratulations! We all watched._

Ciri swallowed. _Thank you,_ she tapped back, and nothing more followed. 

Instead of going back to the village, Ciri headed out to celebrate in a hotel with Geralt and the others. She and Yennefer would pack up tomorrow. 

“Congratulations,” everyone kept telling her, and Ciri lost track of how many times she thanked them. Her tongue was tired from performing the same words over and over and over. She just wanted a cupcake and to make Geralt tell the story of getting engaged and then to sleep. Oh, and a slice of pizza, which was waiting for her in the hotel. Ciri snatched it, hot cheese and sauce exploding in her mouth.

Angoulême kept snickering, snapping TikToks of her. Ciri crossed her eyes for one. 

“How do you feel?” Triss asked her. “Honestly.”

“Overwhelmed,” Ciri said, setting down the crush of her pizza. “Not necessarily in a good or bad way.”

“I understand,” Yennefer told her, patting her knee. And of course, yennefer would. She and Istredd won a silver at their first Olympics and then a gold at their second, defeating their longtime Westerosi rivals, twins Jaime and Cersei Lannister. 

“I can’t believe it’s over.” Ciri shook her head. “It is nice that all of you are alive.” 

Geralt snorted, glancing down at his beer. Ciri reached for it. He pushed her hand away. “You’re not of legal age here, Ciri.” 

Right. Twenty-one. She glanced at Cahir, who was drinking wine. “Twenty-four,” he said apologetically. 

“Screw all of you.” She huffed. 

“I mean, I’m nineteen too,” Angoulême pointed out, already halfway through her second wine cooler. She shrieked when Jaskier took it away from her. 

“Here, Ciri.” Yennefer handed her own glass over. “Just a sip.” 

Geralt rolled his eyes. Ciri waited for a quiet moment to draw Geralt off to the side. “Did you ask the question because I told you to?” 

“I had been thinking about it,” Geralt confirmed. “Your—comment was enough to give me a push.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “I’m proud of you, kid. But you didn’t need to bring us all back.”

“I didn’t need to,” Ciri agreed. “But I wanted to. I wanted you all to have a chance to live happy and free, like I did.”

“We already were,” Geralt told her. “We had, because of you. But, thank you.” 

Ciri’s eyes misted. “You’ve never been a monster, not to me.”

“And you.” Geralt tipped her chin up. “No matter what you did with the Rats, in this life or the past, you are nothing less than a princess who will shatter ice to save those she loves. You remind us all about hope.” 

She hugged him.

“Yennefer insisted I book you and Cahir a room together,” Geralt said, voice muffled. “On the ninth floor, since it’s all they had open. I’m not so—” 

“Ninth is good,” Ciri said brightly. 

Geralt sighed. A wry smile turned his lips into a curve. “I’ll kill him if he pulls anything.”

Ciri laughed. 

Around one in the morning, Ciri and Cahir finally headed upstairs. She honestly just wanted to sleep, and she didn’t think he would protest. 

The room was spacious, decorated in black, white, and red. Ciri flopped facedown on the bed, moaning. She hugged the pillow to her chest. Cahir snorted, taking off his shoes. 

“Geralt said he might kill you,” Ciri mumbled. “I said he better not.”

“He already gave me a talk earlier this morning.” Cahir lay down next to her, both of them still over the thick white covers. 

“Do I even want to know what he said?”

“Just that I better appreciate you.” Cahir smiled.

“Me and my rose tattoo.” Ciri’s phone rang, and she propped herself up to answer it. “Angoulême?”

“Hey Ciri,” said Angoulême’s voice. She sounded slightly tipsy. “Guess what. I was in the lobby, and I saw that person.”

Ciri stiffened. Cahir frowned. 

“Emhyr,” Angoulême said. “He asked for a room, and I was afraid to get too close, but I heard him asking for the ninth floor.”

“Where are you now?” Ciri demanded, sitting up. 

“In my room. I locked the doors. Triss is in the shower; when she gets out I’ll—” 

“Bang on the door,” Ciri said. “Tell her to get her shit together. Get to Geralt and Yennefer’s room, okay? We’ll meet you there.” She hung up.

Cahir was already on his feet, shrugging into his jacket. 

“We have to go,” Ciri said, heart pounding. “Now.” 

Cahir nodded, grasping her hand. They took off towards the lifts, waiting. 

The lift dinged to a stop. Ciri went to step on and froze. “You!” 

Emhyr stared at her.

“Oh shit,” said Cahir. He snatched Ciri’s forearm, yanking her with him. 

“Go!” 

They raced down the carpeted hallway. Ciri grabbed a ceramic vase of calla lilies and hurled it at him. It shattered against his knee. A grunt echoed. He fell to the floor, hands gushing blood over the carpet. 

“Cirilla!” called Emhyr’s voice. He struggled to get to his feet, swearing as he plucked a shard from his knee. “I just want to speak with—” 

Ciri pushed open the door to the hotel’s stairway. She charged down it, Cahir on her heels. Only two floors down, and she could hear him opening the door—

She pushed Cahir through the door to the seventh floor. They flew down the hallway, around one of the corners— 

“Oof!” 

Cir yelped. “Sorry, sorry, I—” She froze. 

Daenerys gaped at her, a half-empty cocktail glass in her hand. Ciri heard the stairwell door opening on the other side. 

“He’s—” 

Daenerys seemed to understand. She used her card to unlock the door right in front of them. Ciri and Cahir ducked inside. Several other Westerosi skaters were inside, including Sansa and Arianne, drinks in hand. Considering most of them were underage, they looked more than a little guilty. 

Daenerys held her finger to her lips, shoving Ciri and Cahir into their bathroom. Sure enough, a knock came at their door. 

There wasn’t time to shut the door. Ciri flattened herself against the wall, Cahir next to her. She could see Daenerys’s boyfriend drape his arm around her as they answered. 

“Hello,” said Emhyr.

“You’re not room service!” called Theon Greyjoy, one of the pair figure skaters who partnered with his sister, Asha. 

“I’m the new owner of this hotel,” Emhyr said smoothly. “We had a report of underage drinking by a champion figure skater.”

Shit. Ciri squeezed Cahir’s hand. Was he bluffing?

Honestly, probably not. Ew. 

“Oops,” said Daenerys, unapologetic. 

“We’re checking on everyone,” Emhyr said. “No desire to get anyone in trouble, just making sure the hotel doesn’t get in trouble. Would you happen to have invited Cirilla Cintra to this party?”

“Yeah,” said Sansa. “Yeah, but she didn’t like, come. She ran by a few minutes ago. I saw her. She spilled her drink on Dany.”

Ciri held her breath.

“Not a problem,” Daenerys said cheerfully. “She went down the right staircase. She had her boyfriend with her.” 

“Thank you.” Footsteps echoed. Ciri and Cahir slipped out from their hiding spot as Daenerys shut the door.

“Those stairwells are loud,” Ciri said. “We have to get to Geralt and Yennefer before—”

“Go down the other one,” said Daenerys’s boyfriend. “Quick.”

“We’ll call security,” added Gendry Waters, a male figure skater. 

“No, call Yennefer and Geralt first,” Ciri said. “Room 405. Thanks, Dany.”

“No problem.” Dany glanced at her boyfriend. The two of them followed Ciri and Cahir into the hall, where Daenerys ran towards the stairwell Emhyr had just headed down. A latching sound. Daenerys had locked the stairwell. “Go!” 

“Thank you!” Ciri yelled over her shoulder as they raced back to the stairwell they’d come from. 

They reached the fourth floor, but just as Ciri reached for the door, it flung open.

Not Emhyr.

Oh, how she wished it was Emhyr. Instead, fear knotted in her throat, choking her. 

“Fuck!” Cahir dragged her further down the stairwell. Bonhart’s feet pounded behind them. “They’re working together again!”

“You know how this ended last time, Bonhart!” Ciri shouted. “You really want to risk that again, do you?” Of course he did. Of course he wound. Terror scraped at the backs of her eyes, trying to blind her. If he had a gun, or—

The second floor door flew open when Bonhart was almost upon them. Ciri spotted Éowyn and Vin both there. It knocked Bonhart back on his ass.

_Thank you, Dany._

They made it to the lobby door, but it wouldn’t jimmy open. _Come on!_ Ciri swore. 

“The basement!” Cahir pulled her down one more level, jumping down instead of using the stairs. At least she didn’t have to worry about protecting her ankles anymore. 

The basement houses dozens of washing machines and dryers, wired machinery, and even old mattresses. Ciri held her breath. They kept the lights off as they crept through it. 

“Go ahead,” Cahir whispered, pushing her away. “I’ll deal with him.”

“No chance!” Ciri shot back. “I’m not risking that! Not again!” She clung to his shoulder. _You don’t get to die on me this time! Not on the best night of my life, at that!_

She’d come so far. Her gold medal was still around her neck. She wasn’t going to lose, not this time. 

“You’re still the one hiding, Cirilla,” said Bonhart’s voice to their left. “Or should I call you Falka?”

Ciri ducked behind a concrete pillar. Her heart pounded. Her hands trembled. 

“Hey, boy,” said Bonhart. “You put up a noble fight last time. You really want to die again? Are you in love with her or something? I assure you; I’ve seen her naked. She’s not worth it.”

Cahir jerked. Ciri stomped on his foot. _Don’t you dare!_ “He’s trying to provoke you,” she hissed.

“It’s working,” Cahir muttered darkly. 

The two of them backed up towards one row of dryers. The machines vibrated, hot against her back. She crouched low, Cahir beside her. _Geralt, Yennefer, come quickly!_

Buckets of detergent and bleach lined metal shelves. Ciri hesitated. “Do you trust me?”

Cahir nodded.

She kicked her foot into the dryer with a bang. Footsteps immediately pounded. Ciri scrambled to her feet, gesturing. With a nod, Cahir raced away.

“Ah,” said Bonhart when he saw her. He held out his phone as a flashlight. “Sent the poor young knight to safety?” 

“How does it feel to have a second chance and blow it?” Ciri asked, taking a step back. Her sneakers crunched on the gravelly, concrete floor. He was almost in position. Almost. 

“A second chance?” Bonhart demanded. “My only chance has always been my intelligence. You changed nothing about me. I only ever—” 

“That’s not my fault!” 

“I can’t lose to you. I don’t lose.” 

“Clearly,” said Ciri. “Neither do I.” She held up her medal. 

“I couldn’t care less how you did. All I know is that you killed me, you killed the one thing I was able to succeed in. You humiliated me, you forced me to—” Bonhart’s voice was cut off by a creak. He looked up.

The shelf by his head toppled over, buckets of sticky blue detergent and clear bleach pouring onto him. He howled. Cahir rushed over to her. 

“Fuck you, you little—” 

“Death,” said Ciri. “Don’t you remember, Bonhart? You claim you’re angry that I killed you? Remember how you killed every single one of my companions? Remember how you forced me to watch Mistle die? Remember how you told me, this is death?” She stepped closer, glaring at the pinned man. 

“Witch—”

“You said that you brought death. I feared I did. But you’re fucking wrong. I decide _life_ . You thought you owned me? You never could. You’re my servant, if anything, because here you are, living again, because of _me_.” She towered over him. “I let you live back then because I must not have hated you. Because everyone can improve. And you were brought back because you had to be, and you are a small fly in an ointment of people I love, and if I have to deal with that to get the ointment, it’s not a price at all.” 

Bonhart gaped up at her, shifting as if trying to stand. 

She had nothing to threaten him with. 

“Run!” Ciri screamed, grabbing Cahir’s hand. They spun, and then a thwack. Ciri fell to the ground. Bonhart had managed to drag himself from the slime, a mop handle in his hands. He’d slammed it into her knee. She cried out as the wind ripped from her lungs. She gagged.

Cahir lunged towards her, grasping her shoulders. Ciri panicked. _Not again, not again!_ She shoved him back, throwing herself in front of him. Now they were both on the ground, and— 

A crack. Ciri whirled, air trickling back into her lungs.

Bonhart lay face-first and still on the ground, blood trickling from his skull. Ciri looked up.

Yennefer stood there, a broom handle in her hands. Behind her was Geralt, and with them Jaskier and Angoulême, Triss too. 

“Someone’s going to _jaiiiiil_ ,” said Jaskier in a sing-song voice. 

Cri was gasping, her lungs still feeling raw and bruised from that fall. Geralt rushed over to her, helping her up and then extending his hand down to Cahir. 

_We’re all here. We’re all alive_. Ciri trembled. 

“Hotel security!” shouted a voice behind them. “Had a report of stalking—” The security guard gaped at the mess on the floor.

“He was stalking me and tried to assault us,” Ciri said, pointing at Bonhart. _Just try to explain that I killed you in a past life, asshole_. “I want to press charges.” Her hand, still sticky and dripping detergent, clutched Cahir’s. “And I know who hired him. He was hired by—”

“Vilgefortz,” interrupted a new voice. Ciri stiffened.

Emhyr marched over to them, chin raised, eyes proud. Disgust churned in Ciri’s stomach. “I came here to warn Cirilla Cintra of my PR manager. He’s been fired from my company, and you can see his twisted designs on my company’s electronic property. I think both could be charged with intent to kidnap.”

_You want to push your bad deeds onto them?_ Ciri glared. Emhyr, for the record, looked worse for wear, a black eye swelling around his socket.

“What happened to you, sir?” asked the guard.

“Two figure skaters in colorful outfits misunderstood where I was headed and my intentions,” Emhyr said, rubbing the back of his neck. 

Colorful? Aravis, no doubt. Maybe Orual with her. 

“You really expect me to believe that your PR person wasn’t acting on your orders?” Yennefer demanded. “Sick bastard.” 

Geralt looked as if he would like to murder Emhyr. 

“You can believe what you’d like,” said Emhyr. 

Cahir squeezed Ciri’s hand. Emhyr’s gaze trailed downwards, noticing. 

“Wait,” Ciri said. “No. That’s not enough, Emhyr.”

He arched his brows. 

“You’re an asshole,” Ciri told him. “You ruined my family once and you almost did it again. But I’m lucky, aren’t I? How many others have you destroyed?”

Emhyr flinched. “I—”

“My mother deserved better,” Ciri said. 

“You looked like her tonight,” was all he said.

“I don’t even know what that means to you,” Ciri said, voice cracking as the guard led Bonhart away in handcuffs. “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. You still blew it. You blew it again, but don’t you dare tell me it was your destiny to do all you did. You did them because you put your hope in yourself. Because you wanted to save the world instead of your hypothetical grandchild. Because you wanted to convince yourself you were important.”

_I thought winning gold would make me important. Winning, winning, winning._

_It didn’t._

_They did._ She glanced at her friends, and Yennefer and Geralt.

“I did not hire Vilgefortz to pursue you beyond the initial drug test,” Emhyr said finally. “Yes, that was on me, after Bonhart’s photos came out. I wanted a chance to recruit my daughter to work for me. But everything he’s done since has not been because of me. Not since I first started having those dreams. I dreamed about our farewell first and foremost.”

“Glad to know it haunted you,” Ciri said bitterly. “I don’t want to speak to you again.” 

Emhyr gave a small nod. “I truly did come to warn you about Bonhart.”

“And to see me and speak to me face to face,” Ciri said. “Is that a hint of regret? Or just fear, because you know that I have enough media power to destroy you now, if it comes to that?” 

Emhyr sighed, turning to leave.

“Wait,” Ciri said. “Emhyr.”

He waited. 

“You’re going to treat Cahir’s family well. If you take anything, and I mean anything, out on them, I swear to God I will turn to all my powerful friends, and I will see to it that you’re exposed and at _my_ mercy. Forget wanting my hypothetical son; I’m right here, Lady of Space and Time.” She stepped forward, narrowing her eyes. “You couldn’t control your own daughter, so what makes you think you’d be able to control the hypothetical savior of the world? Who may never exist, or may, but honestly, I’ll see to it that you lose everything worth saving if you even think about punishing his family or punishing any of my loved ones for your own inadequacies. You don’t win by focusing on others’ performances.” 

Cahir gaped at her. Emhyr looked ashen, but also almost amused. His lips curved upwards. “I will not do anything to them.” 

“Well, I’m going to keep tabs on it,” Ciri retorted. “Forgive me if I don’t trust you.” 

Emhyr actually laughed at that. “Fine, Cirilla.” His footsteps echoed as he walked away. 

“Well, I’m alive this time,” commented Angoulême. 

“Good,” Ciri said. “My medal’s covered in goo.” She held it up, nose wrinkling. 

“We can clean it,” Yennefer said. 

Ciri moaned. “I just want to sleep.” But first she had to—

“Tell me the other figure skaters’ rooms,” said Angoulême. “I’ll tell them what happened and that you’re fine.” 

“Unfortunately the police are going to want to interview us,” Geralt said. 

Ciri stomped her foot. 

By the time they were released from the legal rigamarole, the sun was starting to rise in a peach and cream sky. She glanced at Cahir as the four of them rode the elevator back up at long last. 

“I’ll see you when you wake up,” Cahir said, gesturing for her to follow Yennefer and Geralt. 

“Hey,” said Geralt. He gestured for Cahir to follow them. “My room does have two beds.” 

Good. Ciri stepped into the shower, rinsing off the muck from the laundry room, and staggered to the bed. She fell asleep almost instantly. When she woke, she had draped her arm over Cahir’s shoulder. Yennefer was shaking her.

“Did I miss a media appointment?” Ciri asked sleepily. She grabbed her phone, checking. _2:13?_ What the hell? 

“No,” said Yennefer, smiling. Her hair was pulled up high on her head, and even without makeup or sorcery, she looked like a goddess. Cahir stirred, pushing himself up on his elbows. “Someone’s here to see you.” 

“Who?” Ciri asked, rubbing her eyes. 

“Not you,” Yennefer said, dropping down next to her. She gestured. 

Ciri turned towards the doorway. Geralt stood there, shadows hanging under his eyes. Behind him was a couple Ciri didn’t recognize, and three girls, another boy. 

Cahir’s eyes bulged. He scrambled to his feet, clenching and unclenching his fissts. He looked scared, mouth opening and closing, as if he had too much to say and no way to say it.

_It’s been years, hasn’t it?_

_Will they be angry at you for what you did to me, or for what you didn’t do for Emhyr?_

“My son.” The older man—Caellach, it must be—grabbed Cahir, and he wilted then, clinging to his father, his siblings swarming, his mother looking uncertain but still stepping closer. 

Cahir’s littlest sister glanced at Ciri with her eyes shining. Ciri waved. “I love your skating,” the girl blurted out. 

Ciri laughed. “Aw, do you? You should visit us. I can take you skating sometime, if you like.” Was this how people interacted with their boyfriend’s families? She really had no idea. 

“I’m sorry,” Cahir kept saying. “I’m so sorry, I—” 

Yennefer rested her head on Ciri’s shoulder, drawing her close. And Ciri knew. 

_I can tell you the worst of what I did with the Rats, and you’ll still embrace me._

_Mother._

“How did they come?” she whispered. “Did Emhyr—”

“No,” Yennefer murmured. “Geralt didn’t really sleep. He had already tracked them down and contacted them. He told them that if they wanted to see their son, they could, but only if they didn’t intend to yell at him or cast him away. If they would do that, they could stay away.” 

Ciri smirked. “Cahir still isn’t sure Geralt likes him.”

“Like or not, Geralt clearly cares about him,” said Yennefer. “After all, they’ve known each other two lifetimes, and they’ve had each others’ back more than once.” 

“So he’s like a son.”

Yennefer smirked. Ciri leaned her own head against Yennefer’s. “Good.” 

She caught Geralt’s eye and mouthed a simple _thanks_.

* * *

“What else do you want to do while we’re over here?” Geralt asked. “The gala’s tomorrow, but then you have three more days here.”

“Eh,” said Ciri. She paused. “Honestly, I’d prefer to use the money to go home after the gala. I want to see Milva and the baby, Regis, Roach and Ihuarraquax.” 

Geralt laughed. 

Ciri got texts soon after with tabloid reports: Ciri’s Coach Skates With Hockey Player Fiance! She opened the pages, showing Cahir. Yennefer and Geralt had apparently graced a public skating pond, draped in heavy parkas. 

_It’s a free engagement shoot, obviously,_ Yennefer texted her. _Make the paps work for you._

The way Geralt and Yennefer looked at one another, her heading him but his gaze fixated on her, only on her, her small hands clasped in his large ones…. The way Geralt caught Yennefer when she slipped, hands around her waist, how she tipped her head back to peck his nose with her lips… The way their foreheads rested together, even after years apart. 

She glanced at Cahir. _Will that be us someday?_

She felt like she could dream. 

After a flurry of interviews and reuniting with the other figure skaters at the exhibition gala, in which Ciri felt free to improvise her performance to Tony Anderson's Changing of Seasons, she headed to the airport. This time, she could travel with her family. Cahir said goodbye to his family, who were discussing visiting in the summer. Ciri slung her legs over Cahir’s lap as they waited for their flight. 

“I have a question,” said Cahir, eating a bag of pretzels. 

Ciri gestured for him to give her one. “I’m not on a figure skater’s diet right now.” 

He rolled his eyes. “You’ll take all of them.”

“Too bad.” She grabbed a handful from the crinkly bag. “What’s your question?” 

“Is everyone from this world—like, everyone—from our old world? Or did we just get integrated into another world?” 

“Are you asking if I have the power to create worlds?” Ciri wiggled her eyebrows, crunching on a pretzel.

He laughed.

“I don’t think I created the world,” Ciri said. “I didn’t remember any of the other figure skaters, for example, and I don’t think anyone else suddenly had an epiphany and remembered a past life. Well, Renfri and Adda apparently do, but no one else mentioned it. I don’t really know how it worked. So, yeah, as far as I know, I’m not a goddess.” She finished her pretzels. 

He handed her another one. She took it from his fingers with her mouth. “Keep it PG-13, you two!” called Yennefer from where she was drinking coffee next to Geralt. 

Cahir flushed. Ciri smirked. “Honestly, even if I was. I think I’d just want to be a girl. Ending up—just a girl in a foreign place—wasn’t so bad last time. As far as I remember.” She met his eyes. “I think I just really missed everyone. Especially Yennefer and Geralt.” 

“I’m glad you did,” Cahir said. 

“Me too. I’d miss out on you.” Ciri winked. 

_You said once I was your hope._

_I think you’re part of mine, too._

The intercom announced boarding for their flight. Ciri hauled herself to her feet, boarding the plane. She settled down in her seat, Cahir on her left and Angoulême on her right. Jaskier was eagerly anticipating the wine from the carts and hoping not to see Yennefer and Geralt snogging too much. 

“Do you think Ihuarraquax has the consciousness of a unicorn? Do cats have the consciousness of unicorns in general?” Ciri wondered. “Or did he downgrade? I guess I’ll know if he scratches me.” 

Cahir laughed. He squeezed her hand. 

The plane took off, white wisps of clouds trailing along the windows, drenched by golden sunlight. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!!!


End file.
